


In the Language of Flowers (my feelings are clear)

by SleepytimeOtter



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: -Ish, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie Kaspbrak is Clueless on Flowers, First Kiss, Flower Language, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepytimeOtter/pseuds/SleepytimeOtter
Summary: Eddie stares down at Richie’s newest gifts and feels a stupid amount of affection bloom in his chest. The first is a little vase of flowers so tiny that they barely fit on the tip of his thumb, ranging from bright purple and bright blue. Paired with them is a little cactus just as tiny as the flowers, planted in an equally tiny, loudly-patterned pot.And his affection only grows when he looks at the tiny succulent when it’s dwarfed in Richie’s giant hand. He presents it like it’s a celebrity on a plant version of the red carpet.“These are forget-me-nots,” Richie explains, waving a hand toward the flowers. “And this… is a cactus.”“I can tell that it’s a cactus, Rich.”Or, after Derry, Eddie Kaspbrak begins to weed out the worst parts of his life. With Richie's help, he learns how the two of them can learn to bloom together.
Relationships: Background Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Background Stanley Uris/Patricia Blum Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 36
Kudos: 369





	In the Language of Flowers (my feelings are clear)

**Author's Note:**

> After about a month and a half of off-and-on work, she's finally here! Based loosely off of a twitter convo between [Barbie](https://twitter.com/derryfacts2) and I!
> 
> A big thank-you to my usual beta, [Jen](https://twitter.com/altocara) and my friend K for looking this over for me! Also to the Loser's Club Jr for listening to me ramble about it for literal weeks. I couldn't have done it without you guys! ❦
> 
> Content warnings: Brief mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation (from Sonia and Myra), minor injury talk (Eddie's face and chest/shoulder wounds), Internalized homophobia, typical Eddie-germ talk, and some very brief, blink-it-and-you-miss-it hints at sexual situations toward the end.
> 
> ✿✿✿  
> 

It’s an odd thing, how quickly life can get away from you.

Eddie’s new therapist — Kristeen — likes to think about life like a garden: If carefully curated and nurtured, a garden can stay lively indefinitely. It can grow to its full potential, unhindered, happily living and stretching toward the sun. But, paired with every garden is its own share of weeds. The weeds can be sneaky, growing along the rest of the flowers, blending in seamlessly at first. And then sometimes, after you notice the weeds, you might think you can leave them alone — that they really aren’t harming anything. They aren’t holding your garden back, so it’s not worth the work and effort of pulling them.

But left unchecked, those weeds will spread and grow, until one day you’ll come to realize it’s been taken over entirely, tangled beneath their gnarled thorns and sowing seeds of doubt.

That’s how Eddie felt for many years: like a tiny bloom, strong and resilient, but trapped beneath a tangle of prickly vines. At first, the thorns were like a shield to the outside world — a protective security blanket. But that blanket spread and wound tighter, swaddling and burying him until he could no longer see the sun. Then, when he went to Derry, his eyes were opened to how many weeds had sprung up in his garden over the years. It took him longer than he’d care to admit, but finally, he saw the gnarled branches for what they were: a cage, holding him back.

Removing the briars from your garden is never easy or painless, but Eddie can only hope the result is worth it in the end. 

* * *

✿

“Mr. Kaspbrak?”

The soft voice and a familiar _tapa-tap-tap_ on his office doorframe pull him from his work. From the sound alone, he knows it’s the office’s secretary, Linda. He’s gotten to know her pattern well enough over the years they shared working at the firm. They aren’t _friends_ , not really, but she ranks high on his mental list of co-workers because she only bothers him when absolutely necessary.

“Linda,” he says, as warmly as he can manage without looking up. Then he tacks on: “One moment, please.”

In the back of his mind, he can hear Richie laughing about his _‘Big Bad Business voice,’_ and he grimaces. He saves his spreadsheets methodically, and then again a second time — to be _sure_ — before finally pushing back his keyboard and leaning back into his chair. There’s a knot slowly forming in the curve of his lower back, and he makes a mental note to call his chiropractor about it in the morning.

When he turns toward Linda, though, he pauses.

“Wha— what is _that?_ ”

Cradled in her hands is the biggest bouquet of flowers he’s ever seen. It practically dwarfs her, forcing her to peek out from iridescent petals to flash him a smile.

She clears her throat. “They’re flowers, sir. Delivered to the front desk for one ‘Edward Kaspbrak.’”

She shuffles around to the other side of his desk, setting the vase down with a gentle clink. Her eyes soften, marveling at the flowers, and Eddie is suddenly struck with a long-buried memory of Myra.

_“Every woman loves flowers, Eddie, except me." She'd said. "They’re not good for you, so they aren’t good for me.”_

He stares at her while she's admiring them. Eddie distantly wonders what _she_ thinks of flowers.

“I didn’t know you had any admirers," Linda says. 

There’s an air of knowing in her tone that makes Eddie pause. Eddie’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “Neither did I.”

Linda hums and slinks her way around his desk again. She pauses in the doorway, drumming her fingers against the frame like she’s pondering something.

After a moment, she speaks again. “Congratulations on the divorce, Eddie.”

He meets her eyes and only sees understanding. His stomach plummets out of his ass despite it.

“Yeah. Uh…” Eddie clears his throat. “Thanks, Linda.”

His voice is a little too quiet — too vulnerable for _work_ , for God’s sake, so he simply gives her a stiff nod as she slips out of his office. The moment the clacking of heels fades away, Eddie scrambles to his feet. He thinks it should be embarrassing that he — a grown-ass man — feels like a kid on Christmas because of a few flowers. But after surviving this year, he figures he’s probably earned them.

The bouquet looks huge from a distance, and fucking _massive_ up close. Even a guy like him who rarely buys flowers knows an expensive, carefully assembled arrangement when he sees it. There’s an air of affection that always comes along with them, like the person who put it together did so with love. 

Down the street from the firm is a small but colorful florist. Back when he was married to Myra he’d find himself stopping to stare at the display window, mostly because he could. Myra’s endless fretting made him never dare to take any home, but she couldn’t stop him from looking. It was shortly after his divorce that he remembers stopping in front of that same flower shop, gazing longingly at a bouquet of sunflowers paired with a crane-like blossom. It was a small moment, but somehow it felt bigger than that -- more tangible. He imagined what it would be like to reach out and touch them. 

Now he finally can.

Consumed by that same sense of curiosity, Eddie eagerly leans forward to take in the bouquet like one would a museum painting. The highlight of the arrangement is a bright orange lily with petals unfolding into stars. Red and yellow roses cluster around it, as well as some poppies and a tissue-like, peach-colored flower whose name he can’t recall. There are other flowers he’s not familiar with, too: stick-shaped flowers peppered with tiny pink blossoms, or the fragrant white ones with petals that spiral tightly inward.  
The lilies are soft beneath his fingers, with a smooth feeling like velvet. He idly rubs at one of their petals while using the other hand to pluck out the accompanying card. It’s a small, unassuming thing, sporting a few geometric flowers as decoration framing the simple message:

_**You finally ditched the ball and chain, Eds! Super proud of you, buddy.** _

_**Welcome to that bachelor life!** _

_**-R** _

Eddie stares down at the note dumbly, blinking a few times. He turns it over in between his fingers, waiting for a punchline or the other shoe to drop, but it never comes. 

His spreadsheets and work long-forgotten, Eddie sags back down in his chair. He flips the little card over in his hands a few times, just to make sure, and eyeing the decorative petals. His heart flutters like a trapped bird behind his ribcage, kick-started once again by the burst of feeling.

Richie... sent him flowers. _Flowers._ Sure — it was painfully Richie. But he was trying. Trying to be _nice._

No one’s ever given him flowers before. A few have _tried_ , sure, but he’s never had the courage to accept them. He remembers his favorite college professor presenting him with a bouquet after his graduation ceremony, but not even her generosity and kind eyes could break through Eddie’s anxious shell. The moment he laid eyes on the flowers back then, he had the overwhelming and ridiculous urge to throw them away. He politely declined her gift before he could act upon it.

But Eddie doesn't feel that way about these flowers. Instead, he looks over them with the intensity of a cat staring out the window, curious and with a heart surging with a flurry of different emotions.

It takes him longer than he’d like, but Eddie briefly forces himself to return to work. He closes out a few analyses here, answers a few emails there, and leans back for a few moments to gather his thoughts and breathe.

Usually, Eddie likes his job. It’s not a _dream_ job by any stretch of the imagination — not like the pilot career he considered as a kid — but he’s _good_ at it. He’s even come to enjoy it over the years. Statistics are second nature when you like working with numbers, and his salary lets him spend freely on gifts for his loved ones. For the first time in his life, he's actually useful for something. It’s certainly not a bad job, and he’s grateful to have it.

But right now, the four walls of his tiny office feel like his own personal prison. Although he normally refuses to use his phone at work — can’t set a bad example for the interns, for fuck’s sake — he’s sorely tempted to break his own rule. He wants to call Richie more than he’s ever wanted to, enough to where it feels like electricity is buzzing beneath his skin with every heartbeat. Bouncing his knee beneath his desk helps relieve some of the tension, but it’s not enough.

Eddie ignores this impulse in favor of his spreadsheets. But a few hours later, he realizes he's barely gotten anything done.

He rubs his eyes in frustration. “Jesus, Eds, get it together.” Eddie decides to take his lunch break early, then spends far too much of it washing his face with cold water.

As soon as 5:00 rolls around, Eddie shuts down his computer, locks his drawers, gathers his things, and practically jogs out of the office. Halfway down the hall, he realizes he'd left the bouquet behind in his haste, so he dashes back to grab it. Frazzled, but now with flowers in hand, he sets off for his hotel room (or “bachelor pad”, as Richie and Bev affectionately call it).

Because using a phone while pulling out of a parking garage is both stupid and stupidly _dangerous_ , Eddie counts down the seconds until he’s stuck in the thrum of traffic he’s grown used to over the years.

He doesn’t even know why he feels this way. It’s a simple gift. It’s appropriate, probably, for forty-year-olds like them. But now Eddie’s surprisingly excited and anxious to hear Richie’s voice, even though they text every day and call at least once a week. His legs start bouncing again, and he silently thanks whoever invented cruise control.

Red brake lights momentarily draw his eyes to a wreck by the side of the road, one likely caused by some dumbass not paying enough attention. Usually, the rage of being stuck in traffic would be building up inside of him like a boiling kettle, but all he feels now is tangible relief. 

Swiping through his favorite contacts, he clicks Richie’s name. He picks up before the first ring even ends.

“Did you buy me flowers?” Eddie blurts out.

“Well hello to you, too, Eds.” Richie laughs. It’s high and nasally and Eddie can’t help but smile along with him. “Yeah, man, I bought you flowers! You said you never got them before, so.”

Eddie recalls last week’s phone call, when he first told Richie about the finalization of his divorce with Myra. Richie teased him about sending a congratulatory bouquet and seemed genuinely surprised when Eddie barked out a response of _I’ve never gotten flowers before. And, I’m pretty sure you don’t get flowers when you get divorced, dude, those are for funerals. What the fuck?_

Something in his stomach turns, and he rolls down the window to let a little bit of air in. He’s so focused on regulating his temperature that he forgets to respond.

“Why, was it weird? Sorry if it was weird, man... You’d said you’d never gotten them before, and—”

“Rich,” he interjects, looking to console him when Richie’s tone starts getting too high, too anxious. “No, it’s not fucking weird. It was— it was nice of you to do, Rich. Linda, the secretary, brought them in to me earlier and dude, they’re fucking huge. I had to strap them into the front seat, which is what I assume you do with flowers— I don’t know, I’ve never gotten them before, but—”

He pauses to breathe.

“So you’ve said,” Richie responds in this short moment, his voice coming out more even this time. It switches back to chipper when he says, “Wait, you have them _strapped in?_ Are you calling me while you’re _driving?_ ”

Richie's known about his _thing_ for driving and calling ever since he crashed his car during Mike’s call. But this time, it couldn't wait. He just wanted to thank Richie before he forgot, that’s all.

That's all.

“I’m in traffic, dipshit. I live in New York City, which means I’m stuck in traffic, like, fifty percent of the time. It’s a lot safer to call while you’re gridlocked because everyone on the road is going slower, including you, so statistically, it’s way safer to call now than any other time while you’re driving." Realizing he's rambling, Eddie stops and sighs. "So there’s very little risk and it’s fine— I’m fine, Richie.”

“Okaaay... So, about the flowers riding shotgun," Richie says, slow and effortless. Eddie can tell a shit-eating grin has spread across his face from tone alone. “Do you need a baby on board sign, or did you have one already?”

Eddie can’t help it. It’s ridiculous enough to where he laughs.

Eddie wheezes. “Oh my God, dude, shut the fuck up.”

“Your life would be significantly less interesting without my voice in it, Eds.”

Eddie hums. “ It’d be a lot quieter, at least,” he decides. Now it’s Richie’s turn to bark out a laugh.

Any lingering tension or weirdness vanishes after that. They talk nonstop as Eddie crawls through rush hour traffic. Richie provides commentary whenever Eddie rages at another driver, prompting Eddie to fire back with equally colorful retorts. Richie tells him about the new material he’s been working on, now that he’s fired his ghostwriters. His new material is _good_. It’s good enough to keep Eddie laughing the entire way home, and he swears he can hear Richie preen beneath his praise. He’s happier, now. They both are. 

By the time he gets back to the hotel, though, he’s exhausted. With the phone nestled into his shoulder and the vase balanced on his hip, he struggles to unlock the door to his suite. He finally kicks it open, a brief struggle and several swear words later.

After toeing off his shoes and hanging up his keys, he delicately places the vase down on one of the counters in his cramped kitchenette. The flowers bring a much-needed splash of color to his dull room. They look like a centerpiece -- like something that belongs there, and he feels a pang of affection while he stares at it.

“Still with me, Eds?” Richie’s voice breaks the long silence.

Eddie slumps into one of the standard-issue ugly hotel armchairs with a sigh and loosens his tie. It’s taken him a few weeks, but he's learned to tolerate sitting in what feels like endless layers of germs and grime. He puts Richie on speaker and rests the phone on his chest.

“Yeah, I’m here. I just walked in the door,” he says.

There’s a nugget of truth waiting on the tip of his tongue, a snippet of vulnerability that he’s been hiding away for the last couple of months. He picks at his cufflinks idly — a nervous tick — until the words finally rush out of his mouth.

“I just— I really want to thank you again for the flowers, man. They’re probably the best thing that’s happened to me all week, as fucking depressing as it sounds.”

Richie’s voice softens, concern seeping into it. “That does sound sad, man. Are you sure you’re doing okay in your little man cave?”

Eddie knows that it's an out, thinly veiled in a Richie-typical joke. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, Richie won’t push him, and for a brief moment, he considers it. Eddie twists his cufflinks a little harder, hoping that it'll somehow help release the tension coiling up inside of him.

When he was a little younger, New York City felt like an escape. It was everything Derry was not - loud, bustling, and full of life. Moving there made him feel he’d outrun everything holding him back. But then, of course, he met Myra and he trapped himself in his own web of complacency all over again.

It was like he never left home at all.

Derry. IT. His mother. He’d escaped all three of them. But he’s still here, lingering like a bad smell.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Rich,” he admits, finally. “All I’m doing these days is going to work and visiting my lawyer.”

Eddie lowers his voice, as if revealing a terrible secret. “I’ve been eating the same casserole for, like, four days, dude."

"Huh. Is it even _good?_ "

Eddie considers. “It’s broccoli cheddar chicken?”

“Okay, so it’s awful. You're eating a triple layer sad-wich, my dude,” Richie says. Eddie hears something on the other end that sounds like Richie’s sitting up, making him pause.

He tries to respond, but Richie continues on. 

"Are you sure you’re really okay, Eds? If you ever need, like, a change of scenery or weather or some shit... LA's nice this time of year."

And that surprises him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the level of sincerity Richie easily falls into. He can go from rowdy jokes to quiet and fond voices before Eddie can even blink, and it always makes his heart thud a certain sort of way.

“What are you saying, Rich?”

“What I’m saying is you could move here if— if you wanted to.” Richie’s obviously pacing now, with his feet audibly tapping against the tile of his apartment. “I have a spare room now that Bill’s found his own place, so if you wanted to ditch New York you could.”

He breathes in. “Move in, I mean. Me and Bill, and Ben and Bev live out here so— I don’t know, maybe it would be good for you.” He’s babbling, now. “For a support group, or whatever.”

“A support group, or whatever,” Eddie parrots, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling above him.

“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t want you to be alone while you're dealing with this, this—” Eddie hears Richie smack something off a kitchen counter with his wild gesturing (“Fuck!”) “—this divorce bullshit. I know it's basically finalized and you’re a free man or whatever the fuck, but...” Richie’s voice is suddenly tender, and Eddie smiles.

“Are you starting a shelter for freshly divorced, middle-aged men now?” Eddie jokes. Richie laughs his big laugh, the one that rumbles from his belly and snorts out through his nose. And really, Eddie can’t stop himself from chuckling along with him when he adds, “Are we just massive stray cats to you?”

“Hey, not my fault that you all synched your midlife crises,” Richie retorts. “Plus, cats are way cuter than you guys. No offense.”

“They are pretty fuckin’ cute.” Eddie agrees.

“Just think about it, okay?” Richie says, like he’s worried to lead the conversation too far from the topic at hand. “I’m always happy to share my home with you, you little city rat.”

Behind all the jokes, the sincerity in Richie’s tone is obvious. He’s probably been thinking of — or even rehearsing, Eddie thinks with a smile — this whole shtick for a while. It makes him feel cared for in a way he’s never felt before.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, man,” Eddie says. “I’ll think about it, Rich.”

Somehow it feels like a promise. 

* * *

✿

Eddie does think about it. He thinks about it a lot, actually.

After he got off the phone with Richie, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed, it was all that was on his mind.

He even thinks about it while he’s asleep. It manifests in the form of one of his recurring dreams where he’s sixteen all over again, packing up his entire room while his mother cries on the other side of the door. But he’s brave, and he can do it. He can leave the bullshit town and its bullshit clown in his dust.

And when he went into the office the next day, he found himself thinking about it then, too.

_LA’s nice this time of year._

Out of all of the Losers, he and Richie had been the closest to each other since the beginning, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Richie would be the one to invite him to move in. He loves all of the capital L Losers equally, of course — hell, he probably talks to Bev and Stan on the phone more often than he does Richie, on average — but it’d be difficult to deny that Richie was his best friend of all.

Which is probably why Eddie’s so tempted to accept it, when the thought of moving in with anyone else seems ridiculous. Like wearing a shirt backwards — something about the whole situation would feel slightly _off._

And Eddie’s tired of worrying, over-thinking, _hesitating._ After Derry, he wanted to prove to himself that he could be brave. Prove it to the world. Maybe all it takes is a single vase of orange and pink flowers.

So, when his lunch break rolls around, he caves and swings by his boss's office. The man’s had it out for Eddie ever since the latter refused to call him "Bobby" — because Bobby is the name for a teenage boy and not a businessman who makes three figures — but to Eddie's surprise, he accepts Eddie's transfer request without a fuss. Honestly, it's probably because he just straight-up doesn’t enjoy his company — even if Eddie is one of his best employees.

Not that he can blame Robert, though. He’d probably jump at any opportunity to Eddie out of his hair, too, even if it meant losing one of his best accessors.

Eddie reads over the details of the transfer while spooning the last bit of casserole into his mouth. Their sister branch in LA has been in need of a senior accessor for a while now, which means he’d barely be losing any of his annual salary in the move over _and_ he would keep his position. Plus, the office is a short commute from Richie’s place.

It's perfect.

Maybe _too_ perfect.

So, like Eddie usually does when he runs into adult problems, he calls Stan.

“It sounds like it would be a good solution for you, Eddie. I mean, now seems like a better time than ever, given your current housing situation.”

Eddie cringes as he rinses out his Tupperware. Stan’s right — finding a New York apartment on such short notice has been a nightmare — but moving in with his childhood friend at forty is still pretty fucking embarrassing. The last thing he wants to be is a burden, especially on Richie.

As if reading his mind, Stan adds, “It’s not like having a roommate is anything to be ashamed of. Bill was just living there, too, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says, drying off his Tupperware with a paper towel. “But it all seems too easy. Moving cross-country shouldn’t be easy, Stan.”

“You’re allowed to catch a break, Eddie.”

Stan’s always been good at that; being a force of calm even in the storm. Eddie sighs.

“You’ll have Richie, Bill, and Ben and Beverly. Soon enough, you’ll have us too. Don’t worry about it.”

He can hear the smile in Stan’s voice when he says it. Once upon a time, the Urises were going to move out to California themselves, but then Patty got pregnant and threw a wrench into their plans. Eddie still fondly remembers the look on Stan’s face when he set up a video call to tell them all the news, all bright and teary-eyed.

“You’re telling _me_ not to worry, Stanley?”

“Oh, I know, very difficult for you.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie responds. “Pot, kettle, or whatever the fuck.”

Stan clicks his tongue, like that’s the end of the subject. “I think it’d be good for both of you, that’s all. But especially you. I’m sure that hotel room is more than a little bit lonely now.”

Eddie hates how true that is. He hums, hoping it sounds non-committal.

It is pretty fucking lonely, to be honest. For most of his life, Eddie didn't need to worry about anything long-distance since he had so few good friends anyways. But the ache without them is now tangible. And that's without even considering the nightmares that’ve been plaguing him since he returned from Derry.

He still feels a wave of panic when he wakes up alone in his hotel room, the fully-healed wound through his shoulder burning with a long-lost echo of pain. They’re always the same handful of scenarios: a play-by-play of the Clown skewering his shoulder. Richie being too slow to pull him out of the way, and the all-encompassing pain that comes with that mistake. Or, worse of all, that he had betrayed his bravery and stayed with Myra for longer than was truly necessary.

Eddie tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Stan say, “Plus, I think Richie could use the company, now.”

He pauses for a beat. “Now that Bill’s moved out, I mean.” There’s an air of knowing in his voice that makes Eddie furrow his brow.

"Wait, is Richie... lonely?" Eddie says. 

Richie certainly hasn’t talked to him about being lonely at all, and he’s never gotten any sort of impression like that from their conversations together. Sure, they’ve all had difficulties since Derry, and he knows Richie is no different, but… Surely he’d mention something like that. 

Stan sighs, long-suffering. “Look, Eddie, you two are... close, but I think living together will help you right now.”

Eddie suspects Stan knows something that he doesn’t. But it’s not like he’s wrong; life’s burdens wouldn’t feel nearly as heavy if they could share the load, if they had people there to support them. _A support group_ , a Richie-sounding voice offers.

“Yeah— yeah. Maybe you’re right,” Eddie finally agrees.

Their conversation shifts after that, to Eddie listening to Stan talk about Patty’s doctor’s visits and the different kinds of birds that he’s been able to attract to his feeder. At one point, Patty herself joins in, her bright voice bringing a sunny mood along with it. Patty may not be one of the ‘original’ capital-L Losers, but she quickly wormed her way into their ranks regardless.

If you’d asked him six months ago if he’d be the type of man to be excited by pregnancy news and birds, Eddie would’ve laughed. But both of the Uris’ enthusiasm is infectious, and he can’t help but be swept up in it together with them. 

* * *

✿

In the end, it takes another night of pondering, a single text to Richie, and a three-hour phone conversation to solidify their plans. 

And just like that, Eddie starts packing up to move cross-country.

* * *

✿

The flight from JFK to LAX is one of the longest of Eddie’s life. He doesn’t usually consider himself a bored person — because boredom usually means that he needs to find something productive to do — but throughout the entire six-hour flight he finds himself fidgeting. Not even his noise-canceling headphones and one of his favorite podcasts could help him. 

So when they finally land, taxi across the runway, and Eddie’s finally released along with the two-hundred other sweaty, exhausted passengers, he feels like he can finally _breathe_. He speedwalks through getting to baggage claim to try to relieve some of that nervous energy.

Then a familiar voice stops him in his tracks.

“Eds!”

Eddie turns around just in time to get an eyeful of Richie, weaving his way through crowds of people in the most brightly patterned shirt Eddie has ever seen in his life. Eddie stares at him as he navigates through the multitudes of people, slowly like he’s trudging through ankle-deep water.

Even with Richie right in front of him, Eddie has to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the crowded terminal.

“Did you go through the trouble of parking in the garage just to blind me with your obnoxious fucking shirt?”

Richie beams at him.

“I knew you’d like it.” He pulls his shirt away from his body, admiring the colorful boxy shapes against the white fabric. “I figured it’d make me easy to find. Y’know, over the crowd and all.”

“I’m regretting this decision already.”

“No, you’re not,” Richie says, moving in to wrap him up in a hug. This is another thing they do now, long after Derry — Richie actually hugs him. It’d been awkward at first, like the two of them were trying to figure out how to navigate each other, but it’s like second nature now. Even if Eddie is sweaty and disgusting and covered in plane-germs.

“No, I’m not,” Eddie agrees, easily, patting Richie on the back.

* * *

✿

When they finally reach Richie’s apartment an hour and a half later, Eddie’s struck by how _normal_ it looks. It’s a lot cleaner than he expected, for starters, with actual organization and little touches of decoration. Not that Eddie had much to reference, considering the last time he saw any of Richie’s spaces was when he was a seventeen-year-old boy, but it still catches him by surprise to see how generally tidy and put-together it is.

_I do have a cleaning lady_ , Richie told him after he mentioned as much, like it was the most common and well-known practice in the world and not the most Los Angeles thing he’s ever heard.

There are clearly _Richie_ touches and tiny messes hiding everywhere, though, he realizes as they move on into the living room. From a signed poster of _Nightmare on Elm Street_ to a stack of mismatched CDs threatening to spill out of an overloaded shelf, it becomes abundantly clear that Richie’s left little pieces of himself behind all throughout the house.

One thing in particular especially catches Eddie's eye.

“Dude, is this one of the comics you had in Derry?”

In the hall leading towards their rooms is a delicate, little black frame is a well-worn copy of _Daredevil_ that Eddie knows well. It’s the very same comic the Losers read and reread religiously during the summer of 1989, when it was brand-new and exciting. They read it so much, in fact, that the edges bent and cracked, even still. He runs his fingers against the glass absentmindedly, following one of those same creases with his thumb.

“Yeah, dude, that thing is ancient. I thought about throwing it out, but… it’s got memories, y’know?”

Eddie understands. The comic was one of the few good things that Eddie remembers about that summer. Some of his most vivid memories of childhood are when his mom wouldn’t let him leave the house after he broke his arm. When he would sit on his bed, basking in the sun that filtered through the window like some sort of lazy kitten, finding comfort in a pile of Loser-approved comics. He remembers those moments making him feel warm and fuzzy inside, like somehow, just reading the comics kept him close to the rest of the Losers — even when they couldn’t be together physically.

His favorites were always _Daredevil_ and _Thundercats,_ largely because the former was Richie’s favorite. They spent countless hours reading them together, and just seeing it now is enough to bring flashes of fond memories to the front of his mind. It always felt like those moments were the brightest — just him and Richie, lost in a togetherness all their own.

“If this is ancient, what does that make you, old man?” Eddie smirks.

“Me? I’m practically a dinosaur, Edward. They call me a _Toiziersaurus._ ” Richie says, mock-offended.

“Okay, Snoresasaur. Where’s my bedroom?”

After a heated debate around the semantics of dinosaurs, Richie finally finishes his tour by flatly introducing Eddie to his new bedroom. It’s fairly simple and barely decorated — a blank slate, as Richie called it, after assuring him that he’s washed the sheets since Bill lived here. If Bill decorated it at all, he took each and every piece of it along with him when he found his new place.

Eddie's eyes fall on a single vase of purple flowers. The blankness of the room only emphasizes their bright color, catching Eddie’s eye in an instant.

“Are those real?”

He pushes his suitcases to the corner of the room and moves in closer to get a better look. They’re huge up close — vibrantly purple and shaped like flowery grapes. Eddie cautiously leans down to sniff them and is pleasantly surprised when they give off a strong, sweet aroma.

“Of course they’re real, Eds.” Richie leans against the doorframe, clearly amused. “Do I look like the kind of guy that decorates with fake flowers?”

“Rich. You look like the kind of guy who's never decorated anything in his life.”

“ _Yowza,_ ” Richie says, gleefully, like it’s the best fucking thing he’s heard all week. “Eds gets off a good one!”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but can’t hide his smile. “C’mon, dude. Help me unload all this shit.” 

* * *

✿

They spend the hour unloading his three suitcases, despite Richie’s insistence that they take the night off. Richie pulls each and every shirt out of his bags, making some sort of comment on them as he hands them off to be folded. First it’s the polos, then it’s the work-out tops that make Richie’s face twist in an odd sort of emotion that Eddie can’t place. Then, Richie stumbles upon the _women want me, fish fear me_ t-shirt that Eddie was gifted at his work’s annual white elephant, and laughs so hard that he’s forced to sit down.

They bicker like their lives depend on it, starting at how to pack suitcases and ending on what kind of hand sanitizers are the best for when you’re going to an unfamiliar hotel. Eddie knows most of the conversation is bait into getting him worked up, but for some reason, he leans into it anyway — falling into their bickering easily like a safety net.

By the time that they’re finished, it’s approaching midnight. It’s nearing midnight, which means it’s nearing three in his internal clock.

“Past your bedtime?” Richie smirks in the middle of one of Eddie’s yawns.

“We’re forty, asshole. Staying up until midnight is bad for you.”

“Mm, give me more medical statistics while I’m breaking my back to put your things up.” Richie says, pushing the empty shell of one of Eddie’s suitcases to the back of his closet’s shelf.

Eddie flips him off and stifles another yawn. He flops himself unceremoniously onto his too-comfortable guest bed.

Whether Richie spent the extra money to make sure his guest bedroom was especially comfortable or Bill decided to upgrade it, Eddie wasn’t sure. But he sure as fuck wasn’t complaining about it now.

Richie lingers awkwardly at the door. “Well, if you need anything, just ask. Remember, I’m just a wall away.”

There’s a pause, and he adds, “So keep that in mind if you need some _alone time._ ”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , dickass,” Eddie groans, voice muffled by the pillow he buried his face into.

“I _could_ make a joke, but I won’t,” Richie says. 

Eddie lifts his head long enough to shoot him a withering stare.

He doesn’t make the joke, to his credit, and instead he giggles. “Goodnight, Spaghetti-O.”

“Night, Rich.”

With his Eddie-harassment quota apparently satisfied, Richie closes the door behind him with a click.

As soon as he’s alone, the knowledge that he’s still in his sweaty plane-clothes hits him like a foul ball. Grumbling, he hauls himself up and makes quick work of switching into his pajamas — a matching set that Richie had a field day over earlier — and pulls himself back under the sheets in record time.

In the next room over, he can hear Richie turning on the faucet, reminding him of his nightly routine that he was currently neglecting. On any normal day he would have washed his face, brushed his teeth, and put Vitamin-E cream on the scars on his face and side by now, but the exhaustion seeps deep into his bones and keeps him stuck to the sheets like a pile of goo.

The water continues rushing, and Eddie settles in and listens. It’s an odd sort of comfort, living alongside someone else. In the years he shared a home with Myra and his mother before her, Eddie always felt oddly out of place. Like, somehow, even after years of living there, he was an outsider in his own home. He was always too loud, too particular, too _much._

It’s sad, he thinks, to realize that he never felt welcomed in his own home — whether it be with his own flesh and blood or the woman who vowed to stay with him through thick and thin. The exception was, of course, when he wanted to be his own person.  
Here in Richie’s apartment now, it feels a lot like their impromptu sleepovers like the ones they had back in Derry as kids. Back then Richie would sometimes climb into his window in the middle of the night, just because he was bored — or, by some odd sort of sixth-sense, knew that Eddie needed him in that moment. He brought snacks, comic books, and occasionally his notes from school on the days when Eddie’s mother kept him home. That was just how Richie was — always looking out for him and making sure he was safe and happy. How Richie still _is_ , twenty-eight years later.

That’s how the two of them have been since Kindergarten, Richie and Eddie, attached at the hip while whipping up a storm. Forever arguing, but always true to each other.

It’s the same now, he thinks. Richie is allowing him to get away from everything, even if it’s for a little while, keeping him entertained and comfortable while he rides out the waves of life. Sure, they talked shit. Richie would get on his ass about his dad fashion or the way he prefers his mementos stored or how he refuses to drink out of the tap, but he never made Eddie feel weird about feeling that way. Providing a running commentary of Eddie’s eccentricities is Richie’s preferred mode of communication, but it never feels mean-spirited.

When Richie says, ‘if you need anything,’ it doesn’t feel like the words come with a slew of terms and conditions. And he doesn’t even care about Eddie’s weird apprehension for being cared for. He cares for Eddie in subtle, non-controlling ways. In ways that make Eddie think that maybe, just _maybe_ , being cared for isn’t so bad after all.

Richie accepts all of his weird quirks and baggage, and seems to like him better for it. He didn’t even bat an eyelash when Eddie asked him to double-check the lock on the door, just to be sure. Richie did it without question or a joke. 

Richie feels like home, in a way his homes have never felt before.

No, he thinks. Richie’s more than that. He’s Eddie’s sanctuary — a refuge for hiding from the world until he gains enough courage to face it again.

_That_ thought pulls at something in the back of his mind, something that he’s not sure he’s ready to work through yet. Eddie groans, scrubbing his knuckles over his eyes. He tunes out to the sound of Richie distantly brushing his teeth and the low sound of the water running, and wills himself to sleep.

✿

He’s woken up a few hours later by the sound of his door creaking open.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind — in the more primal part of his brain that sees sticks in his paths as snakes and germs as the ultimate enemy — he remembers IT, and bolts upright. For a few heart-pounding seconds while his eyes adjust to the low light, he’s absolutely convinced that the shadow spilling across the floor belongs to that terrifying clown, and that he’s going to die.  
Richie slowly pokes his head into the room, hair sticking out in all directions and glasses slightly askew. Eddie lets out a huge sigh of relief. 

He’s standing like he’s frozen with his hand gripping the door handle. Half-illuminated in the yellow light of the hallway and half-shrouded in shadow, his glasses catch the light with an ominous shimmer.

“Rich,” Eddie wheezes, holding his chest with one hand and wiping sweat off his brow with the other. “Why are you standing like Michael fucking Myers in my doorway?”

“...Eddie.” Richie says, quiet and broken, and it’s enough to make Eddie look back up at him. He looks like shit, frankly, with massive bed head that seems to have been exacerbated by him tossing and turning. The bags beneath his eyes are like valleys, spreading like shadows beneath his glasses. Eddie frowns.

He pats the empty space next to him. “Come here.”

“Why, you wanna cuddle lil’ ol’ me?” Richie says, voice choked.

“Keep it up and I’ll clobber you, maybe.”

Richie forces a half-hearted laugh, and Eddie immediately regrets treating this like a normal bickering match. He hasn’t heard him this quiet in what feels like a lifetime ago, back when he would sit by Eddie’s hospital bedside and read him Twitter posts into the wee hours of the morning.

The all-too-familiar signs of fatigue and fear in Richie’s eyes tell Eddie everything he needs to know.

“The nightmares blow, man. You should sleep in here,” Eddie says, more sincerely, thankful that he can find his voice now that the cloudiness of sleep has been shaken from his mind. “That’s— that’s why you’re here, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why. I just— I wanted to make sure—” Richie starts, and then something flashes over his face, and he shakes his head. “It’s— nevermind. Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t wanna, like, mess up the alignment in your back, or— you know, uh.”

The unspoken _‘hurt you’_ rings in the empty space between them. The scar on his shoulder tingles, like it knows it’s being talked about. It’s a phantom feeling, he knows, because he’s been told multiple times that he will likely have nerve damage and numbness in that shoulder for the rest of his life. But he’s healed, and he’s strong, and he’s alive. Richie couldn’t hurt him if he tried. Eddie knows that, deep in his bones — even if Richie doesn’t.

Something like defiance swells in his chest.

“I’ll be okay,” Eddie assures him.

“You sure?” Richie shifts uncomfortably, bouncing from foot to foot.

“I’m sure,” Eddie says. “I’ve been fully healed for, like, two months. Come over here.”  
Richie hesitates, his hand hovering above the doorknob as if he’s trying to decide whether to retreat or not. But he pads forward, wordlessly shuffling to the foot of Eddie’s bed and crawls onto the mattress as carefully as an awkward, six-foot-two man can. Eddie snorts at the sight of him.

He quickly pulls himself up and under the covers, flopping down unceremoniously against the mattress. Eddie removes Richie’s glasses and places them on the nightstand before he has a chance to protest. Richie’s already broken at least one pair in his life by forgetting to take them off before bed, and Eddie’s not about to give him another chance to repeat it. Richie blinks up at him blearily.  
Richie then turns toward the wall and, drawing his limbs close to his body, tries to make himself as small as possible.

That’s something Richie has done since puberty, when all of his long limbs and broad shoulders suddenly filled in. Richie had perfected the art of making himself small by the time they were in high school. By then, he could easily squeeze into a narrow seat on the school bus, their cramped clubhouse, or a kid-sized sleeping bag during a sleepover. He seems to have carried that habit into adulthood.  
Eddie sees how Richie has squashed himself up against the wall and concludes, as he did more than two decades earlier, that he can’t possibly feel comfortable sleeping like that.

“Rich. Don’t scrunch yourself, dude. The bed’s big enough for both of us.”

“I’ve got giraffe legs, Eds; you don’t want those near you—”

“It’s fine, you _and_ your freakishly long legs can stretch closer—”

“Oh, now they’re _freakish?_ ” 

“Jesus Christ, dude, _c’mon._ ” Eddie hooks his hands underneath Richie’s armpits like he’s picking up an infant, and tugs him closer to him, un-sticking him from the wall. Richie swears, but instead of resisting he pushes his legs against the wall and rolls over. Cheeks pressed against the pillows and hands nearly touching, they stare at each other in semi-darkness.

The two of them shared a bed many times as kids. Starting in elementary school and ending when Eddie moved away from Derry, they had sleepovers at least three times a week, with increasing frequency after they defeated IT the first time. It was a quiet understanding that they had together, that staying close to each other was safer than being apart. They learned that the hard way, following their first trip to Neibolt.

And, truthfully, Eddie liked having someone being close to him. There were seven of them that understood the true terrors that slithered beneath the pavement of Derry. Somehow, though, it always felt like Richie understood the other evils of their hometown better than anyone else. It was a shitty way to relate to one another, bonding over being called words that middle schoolers had no right in knowing — let alone spitting at others — but Richie and Eddie coped in any way they could. That meant that, more often than not, he found himself close to Richie one way or another.  
Just having Richie close and leaning his cheek against Eddie’s shoulder as he slept was enough to calm him down and keep him grounded on even the worst nights.

Besides, Eddie enjoyed this casual intimacy. All seven of them witnessed the unspeakable horror that slithered beneath the pavement of Derry, but it felt like Richie understood the true evil of their hometown better than anyone else. It was a shitty way to relate to one another, bonding over being called words that middle schoolers had no right in knowing, let alone spitting at others, but they coped the best way they knew how. It meant that, more often than not, he found himself close to Richie one way or another. 

Having Richie close to him back then was enough to calm him and keep him grounded on the worst of nights. 

Now Eddie wants to repay that, just a little. 

Eddie stretches out the underside of his arm and pats it with his other hand. Richie’s eyes flick from Eddie’s arm to his face, searches it for a moment, and then reluctantly rolls over. He scoots toward him, lifts his head, and rests his cheek on the inside of Eddie’s elbow.

“See? Was that really so hard?” Eddie says, keeping a teasing edge to his voice.

“I’ll show you something _hard,_ ” Richie’s voice is still a little warbly, but it’s getting there. Eddie can feel him smirking against his skin.

“ _Rich._ ”

Richie huffs a breath, but stays quiet. He wiggles a few times, looking to get comfortable, before falling still.

“This isn’t a very comfortable pillow.” Richie reports after a moment, his voice barely over a murmur.

Eddie snorts.

A brief stint of silence follows, and they stare at each other in the dark. It feels vulnerable here somehow.

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Eddie murmurs in the dark. “The nightmares, not my arm-pillow.”

“Nope. No sir-ee, Spaghetti man.”

“Okay,”

More silence.

Eddie remembers suffering from the weight of this heavy stillness in his hospital room. Back then, as he slipped in and out of consciousness, someone had made it bearable by gently stroking his hair and hands until he relaxed. It was one of the few pleasant things he remembered from that moment, and he has the sudden urge to mimic that. 

For once in his life, Eddie decides to act on his impulses. He places his hand on Richie’s head and starts kneading a snarl out of his hair. He half-expects him to make some mortifying remark, but Richie sighs contentedly instead. And then he leans into it, which makes Eddie feel like he must be doing something right.

With a spark of bravery, Eddie drapes his arm over Richie’s shoulders and pulls him close.

“Eds?” Richie breathes.

“This alright?” Eddie loosens his grip, making sure Richie can easily pull away. He keeps his touches light, just in case this freaks Richie out and he wants to pull away. Richie seems to consider for a moment, but then relaxes and leans against him.

“Okay. Uh, cool. Get some sleep, Rich. I’ll be here if anything happens, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Eds.”

“Wake me up if you need me.”  
“I will, dude.”  
“You better,” he murmurs, quietly, and Richie huffs a laugh that sounds a little closer to Normal Richie.

He hasn’t held anyone like this in what feels like years. Back when he was first dating Myra, they’d cuddle sometimes — more out of obligation than genuine affection. But the further into their relationship, and then into the subsequent marriage they got, the less they touched each other. Before he got to Derry, he could count the times that he’d gotten physically close to another person on a single hand. But the Losers had always been a touchy-feely group, and its members -- especially Richie -- constantly expressed their affection through physical contact: a pat on the shoulder, a slap on the back, a quick hair tousle. It was grounding, in an odd way, to feel the pressure of another person's grip on your skin.

Eddie once found all that attention baffling, embarrassing. He wanted none of it. But after feeling touch-starved for years, he _understands_. He understands the ache of not being touched for far too long, and why people yearn for it so strongly. 

The touch of another person keeps you grounded in reality, makes you feel seen and _alive._

Richie relaxes a little bit, stretching out until their knees knock together. Eddie squeezes him simply to feel the way his skin gives beneath his hand, and Richie hums, upturned at the end in question, warm and slow like dripping honey.

His sleepiness must make whatever walls he had come down, because he responds by wrapping his arms right around Eddie’s middle, holding him properly now. With Richie reaching out to him, they shift, clinging to each other in a tangle of limbs. Eddie experiences a flood of intense sensations: the feel of cool fabric and warm skin, the scent of sweat, the heavy weight of their intertwined bodies. The way his fingers twitch against Richie’s skin.

He’s gonna regret this come morning. But for now, Eddie doesn’t care. He’s just content knowing he’s helping Richie in the best way he can.

Eddie falls asleep with his head tucked into Richie’s hair, just like that, their limbs and bodies entwined.

Richie doesn’t wake him up with another nightmare.

* * *

✿

For the first time since he returned from Derry, Eddie wakes up feeling well-rested. He realizes might only need a single cup of coffee, rather than his usual three, when he finally decides to pull himself up and out of bed.

He instantly loses his train of thought as he stretches and brushes against something warm.

Carefully turning over, his eyes settle on Richie’s sleeping form.

He’s sure they’ll both freak out properly when they’re more awake, considering the circumstances, but for now, he’s the perfect amount of sleepy to calm his nerves. He reaches out, anchoring himself on Richie’s shirt, and lets the steady rhythm of Richie’s breathing lull him back to sleep.

And when he wakes up properly, a little later, Richie’s gone.

It’s not like he didn’t expect it, but the emptiness of the other side of the bed makes him ache regardless. He misses him, even knowing that Richie’s most likely only a room away. His stomach flip-flops at the thought.

Not letting himself get too far into his own head, Eddie leaps out of bed. He stops briefly in front of the mirror to smooth down his bedhead, and pads towards the kitchen.

The smell of coffee and breakfast hit him as soon as he swings his door open, and his stomach grumbles. Eddie’s eyes land on Richie as soon as he rounds the corner towards the kitchenette. He stands with his back to Eddie, his attention focused on beating a bowl of eggs to within an inch of its life.

“So the Trashmouth can cook, huh?” He says, just to be a shit.

“ _Christ._ ” Richie startles, and barely saves his bowl of eggs from pouring all over the counter. Eddie shakes his head and comes to peer over his shoulder. He’s mixed some sort of meat -- ham? -- into the egg mixture, along with some onion, cheese, and two different types of peppers. He hums approvingly.

“ _And_ you eat vegetables. Thank God, I was worried I’d get scurvy.”

“You’re not gonna get scurvy,” Richie says. He switches his voice to some sort of low, gravely Voice, and adds: “Yer all curves, Eddie-baby.”

“I’m a grown man, dipshit.”

“I’m not so sure on the ‘grown’ part—”

“Ha- _ha_ asshole,” he says, knowing full well that Richie is goading him, “I can’t believe people pay to see you in a big fancy theater when you recycle all your material.”

“I can't believe I’m getting slandered while you’re getting all of this quality content for free.”

“Who said anything about _quality?_ ”

Richie laughs so loudly that it surprises both of them. He laughs his big, genuine laugh -- the one that always makes Eddie feel like he’s won somehow. Like the thirteen-year-old version of himself finally won an age-old dare of catching Richie off guard.

“Christ, Eds, you went for my throat like some sort of… baby hyena.”

“Someone has to put you in your place sometimes.” Eddie realizes what he’s said and then adds, “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were totally gonna make this into a weird sex thing,” Eddie huffs.

“I wasn’t,” Richie echoes, flashing him a smile that’s anything but innocent.

Eddie shoots him a glare, but Richie only continues to smile cheerily. There’s a brief moment of silence afterward, but like all of the other bouts of quiet with Richie it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. With Richie, their rare moments of silence gave Eddie the same feeling as waking up early and nursing a cup of coffee, basking in the silence of the morning, and the warmth that spreads up his body. At the thought, he moves to pour a cup of coffee for himself. 

Richie resumes making breakfast and passes the time by entertaining Eddie with tales of his misadventures at the restaurants he worked at during his college days. Most notably _Denny’s_ , and then a brief stint at _Chuck E. Cheese._

“I only worked there a few weeks,” Richie explains, pouring the scrambled eggs into a buttered skillet.

“Did you wear the terrifying rat costume?”

“What? _No—_ ”

Eddie smirks against his mug. “That sounds like something that someone who wore a rat suit would say.”

Richie laughs that big laugh again, and Eddie feels oddly proud of himself.

“If you like that, you’re gonna _love_ how I got fired,” Richie says, scraping the eggs out of the pan and onto two plates.

“How the fuck do you get fired from _Chuck E. Cheese?_ ”

Richie’s eyes are glinting when he looks back at him. “ _Apparently_ it’s inappropriate to utter ‘fuck’ during a second grader’s birthday party.”

“Jesus—” Eddie howls with laughter, bracing himself on the counter. “Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Rich, you did _not._ ”

“Yup,” Richie pops the p, face completely deadpanned. Eddie dissolves into more laughter. “I taught a bunch of seven-year-olds the fuck word.”

Between his actual jokes and the ridiculous experiences that come with them, Richie’s always surprising him with something. He laughs loudly and openly here in the soft morning light, even after he feels Richie’s gaze on him. He catches Richie watching him with a strange look on his face, but it disappears as soon as it comes.

Richie tells him a few more stories over breakfast, each filled with a cast of colorful characters, absurd sound effects, and different Voices. Eddie soaks up each and every story, eager to hear about the parts of Richie’s life he missed out on. He occasionally interjects with some good-natured ribbing, and Richie beams in response. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to talk and laugh with him in the soft morning light.

Maybe it is now.

* * *

✿

After breakfast, Eddie leaves to run a few errands and memorize the route to his new office. He returns home to find it empty, but with a gift waiting for him.

This time the dark blue vase practically erupts with a brilliant display of color: dark pink roses, snow-white carnations, pink lilies, as well as what appears to be a tree branch and the same fragrant white flowers he received in his congratulatory bouquet.

It’s paired with a simple card that’s scrawled a simple, sweet, _**Thanks, Eds.**_

* * *

✿

After a while, Eddie expects the flowers to stop, but they only seem to happen more frequently as he settles into his new routine. They aren’t an everyday kind of gift, still, because even he thinks that would be _ridiculous,_ but Richie picks them up often enough to where Eddie comes to expect them.

Sometimes, the gifts accompany Eddie’s milestones: Like when he picked up his newest car -- another Escalade, much to Richie’s delight -- or when he closed out a particularly difficult job with a less-than understanding client. He’d nearly blown up on the guy after the fifth time he argued against his assessment, but any lingering rage dissipated as soon as he opened the door to find Richie with a small bouquet and glittering eyes.

But other times, Richie gets them _just because!_

Eddie stares down at Richie’s newest gifts and feels a stupid amount of affection bloom in his chest. The first is a little vase of flowers so tiny that they barely fit on the tip of his thumb, ranging from bright purple and bright blue. Paired with them is a little cactus just as tiny as the flowers, planted in an equally tiny, loudly-patterned pot.

And his affection only grows when he looks at the tiny succulent when it’s dwarfed in Richie’s giant hand. He presents it like it’s a celebrity on a plant version of the red carpet. 

“These are forget-me-nots,” Richie explains, waving a hand toward the flowers. “And this… is a cactus.” 

“I can tell that it’s a cactus, Rich.”

Ignoring his deadpanned reaction, Richie adds, “I bought him because he’s sharp and little, just like you, Eds!”

“Not my name,” he says, for old times sake.

“My prickly Eds,” Richie coos.

Butterflies erupt in the pit of his stomach at the idea of being Richie’s anything. He’s suddenly overcome with the elementary school urge to pull at Richie’s metaphorical pigtails. His hands fly up to threateningly hover over Richie’s arms, fingers closing in at the thumb in a pinching gesture.

“I’ll show you prickly, Trashmouth.”

“Ooh, Eddie, is that a threat or a _promise—_ ” Richie’s joke is cut off by a shriek when Eddie pinches him in the soft skin of his forearms.

Scooping the little cactus up, he pretends to place the cactus on the kitchen windowsill in a huff, but can barely hold back a smile as Richie launches into a solemn rendition of _Every Rose Has Its Thorn._

* * *

✿

On the phone before he moved to Los Angeles, Richie called Silverlake a ‘gentrified mess.’ But the longer he stays in the neighborhood, the more Eddie decidedly loves it. It’s different from New York City in just about every way, which is only emphasized as the year drifts into autumn. Flowers bloom even in late September, kept happy by the pleasant weather and sunny days. There’s a cafe a little ways down the street from Richie’s place that’s painted to the T’s with brightly colored street art, punctuated with bright-pink flowers and bustling bushes.

He tries to capitalize on the good weather as much as possible, so when Ben offers him the chance to jog with him during the week he takes it without a second thought. They meet three times a week in Griffith Park, alternating between different routes and working Eddie up from walking to jogging properly. He quickly realizes he fucking loves it. 

For years he truly believed that he was too weak to run, either from his tiny stature or his asthma or his weak bones, but in a few short weeks, he’s forced to face the reality that his mother lied to him about this, just like everything else. Sure, his lung capacity struggles every so often — he can thank IT for that — but he _can_ run, and he _does_ , safely and quickly with Ben’s help. Ben’s good at it from all of his years of getting fit, so he patiently shows Eddie all of the best techniques that Google doesn’t.

Each time he runs, it feels like his own personal kind of rebellion.

* * *

✿

He spends more time with Richie in the months after moving to LA than he has with anyone in a decade. 

When he’d been with Myra, he often took extra shifts or stayed longer than what was truly necessary to get time by himself. He’d seen it as normal, back then, considering most of the other Wall Street rats thought similarly about their own wives, but now he realizes the great lengths he went to in order to avoid her. 

It’s different with Richie, though. They spend most of their day with each other -- especially after Richie begins working from home. Being with Richie is never taxing the way being with Myra had been. It could be their relationship -- Eddie and Myra were married, after all -- but he finds himself excited to come home now like he never has before. A lot of the time, they spend their time out on the apartment’s little balcony, watching the cars drift by in the distance like others might watch stars. 

After a little bit of insistence from Eddie, they even start a little balcony garden together. It wasn’t until they were at the nursery that he learned, despite Richie’s love of gifting him flowers, not only does he not _“do plants”_ , he’s actually _terrible_ at caring for them.

“How does that even make _sense,_ ” Eddie says, while he’s tucking a sweet basil plant into their plant trellis. Richie had picked it out specifically, because it, quote-unquote, _‘spoke to him’_ , along with some marjoram and lavender.

“I guess I’m not a plant guy.”

“You literally buy me flowers all the time. How are you ‘not a plant guy’,” Eddie continues, using his free hand to emphasize it with air quotes.

“Flowers aren’t plants.” Richie shrugs, completely straight-faced. As if what he said actually makes any sort of _sense._

Eddie stares at him.

“Flowers are definitely plants, Rich.” 

“You can’t prove that.” 

“It’s a scientific fact that flowers are plants.” Eddie chops his hand through the air. “We learned this in, like, kindergarten, dude.”

“Oh? I guess you would remember that, considering you just graduated.”

“Are short jokes all you know how to make? Is this the Tozier Experience?” 

Richie shrugs. “Fuck around and find out.” 

Eddie clenches his jaw in order to stop himself from laughing out loud.

* * *

✿

“You look really good, Eddie.”

Mike delivers his enthusiastic assessment via Ben’s iPad propped up against a napkin holder. Eddie pauses mid-bite of one of his scallion pancakes, raising an eyebrow. The image may be pixelated, but the sincerity glowing behind his wide grin is hard to miss. 

They’re in the middle of Eddie’s favorite part of the week: the Losers’ lunch date. Now’s his chance to listen leisurely to Mike’s adventures, Patty’s pregnancy updates, and Bill’s celebrity gossip. Sure, they get updates in the Loser’s Group Chat, but it’s different when they’re all together.  
These weekly get-togethers began shortly after Eddie moved into Richie’s apartment. Like most things in their lives, it started with one of Richie’s jokes. He ordered a variety pack from his favorite Chinese restaurant, expecting the rest of the Losers to be turned off Chinese food for the rest of their lives, but ended up accidentally making it a thing in the process. Because not even a demonic space clown could stop Eddie from eating Chinese food now that he knew he could eat it freely without worry of allergies or intolerances.

Now all of the Losers cram themselves into his cramped apartment every week to catch up over a small feast of Chinese takeout. Stan, Patty, and Mike call in from their respective homes and vacation spots. That part has been more than a little tricky for Mike, who’s been on a post-Derry trip across Europe, but he hasn’t missed a single one. He’s in Belgium, now, by the sounds of it. The nine-hour difference doesn’t seem to bother him.

Honestly, Eddie can’t disagree with him. He feels good. He feels better than he has in years, crowded together with his best friends in the entire world. By the looks of it, Mike is in the same boat, now that he’s no longer burned by the threat of IT. They all had a weight lifted off of their shoulders after the battle with IT, but none more than Mike. It feels good, Eddie thinks, to be able to see him now, even if he is nearly four thousand miles away. He looks less tired, less bogged down. It’s nice. 

Eddie smiles back at him.

“I was thinking the same thing!” Patty’s voice sings out from the speakers of Richie’s iPad on the opposite end of the table. Stan nods in agreement.

“I feel really good,” Eddie says, and he means it. “I think coming to LA has been good for me.”

_And Richie,_ he thinks, looking over at Richie, who beams at him. By the look on Stan’s face, he’s thinking the same. 

“It’s the blessing of Casa-de-Tozier,” Richie, always with an air of dramatism, drapes his arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “It’s practically a relaxation vacation.” 

“Since when is keeping me up until 2 AM baking cookies considered a vacation?” Eddie counters.

“The oatmeal chocolate chip ones?” Bill pipes in, drowning out an exclamation of something that sounds suspiciously like _2 AM?_ on Stan’s end.

“Any left?” chirps Bev from the couch

“There are not, because Edward here ate three of them as soon as they came out of the oven,” Richie says, with an air of pride that makes Eddie roll his eyes.

“I ate _four_ as soon as they came out of the oven,” Eddie corrects him.

“ _I_ think he should eat as many as he wants, as a--” Patty searches for the right word. “--What does Richie always say? As a treat?”

They all erupt into laughter, then. It always comes easy when the eight of them are together.

* * *

✿

Their childlike energy lulls after a while, though. Eddie sighs, a little later, when Bev crawls up onto the couch beside him and puts her head on his shoulder contentedly. Unlike Bill, who sat as far away from Eddie on the couch as he could, Bev scoots in close. She’s quiet, like she’s soaking in the moment of simply being in the room with everyone else, and Eddie completely understands the feeling. It’s overwhelming and amazing and hilarious when they’re all hyped up and laughing with one another, but when they’re all quiet like this it’s better. 

What he can only imagine growing up in a warm, normal household might’ve been like. 

Content, Eddie watches quietly as Stan, Bill and Mike have a quiet conversation about a new book. Bill has moved the two iPads a little closer together, angled to where Mike and the Urises can probably see at least a quarter of each other's faces, and he smiles at the sight. To Bill’s right, Richie and Ben are leaning over the island counter, pouring over some sort of video on Richie’s phone.

Eddie leans over to put his cheek on the top of Bev’s head, over-full and satisfied, watching the rest of them catch up.

“How are you, though, really?” Bev says, voice barely over a murmur. She winds her fingers lazily around one of his wrists, loose and comfortable, like she’s a vine reaching toward the sun. 

It’s an odd thing, being close to somebody, but if there’s anyone who understands his weirdness with affection, it's Bev. All of her touches are feather-light and loose, knowing that Eddie might squirm away at a moment's notice. 

“Now that you’re here, I mean.” She clarifies, after he’s quiet for a moment too long.

“A lot better than I thought I’d be,” he says, just as quiet; like their own little secret. “I’m glad to be here.”

She squeezes his wrist a little tighter, a little affectionate habit she’s picked up post-Derry to show that she’s listening.

“I’m really happy you’re here, too, Eddie.”

His eyes flicker up just in time to make eye contact with Richie, who blinks a few times at him before going back to his phone. He smiles at the back of his head and swears he feels Bev chuckle against him.  
“Shh.”  
“Shhhhh,” she mocks right back at him, and he snorts.

This is what happiness feels like, he thinks. The feeling pools in his soul and sinks down into his marrow, taking hold of him like a set of vines

* * *

✿

As the mild Los Angeles winter turns to spring, it brings with it the promise of wildflowers. And with it, comes the odd phrase being whispered around the office: the superbloom.

He thinks about it all the way back to Richie’s apartment, the phrase stuck in his head.

“Rich,” He calls out from the doorway. “What the _fuck_ is a superbloom?”

“Eds,” Richie says, rolling over on his office chair to peer at him from the entrance of the kitchen. “Have you never seen photos of the superbloom?”

“Must I remind you I lived in the middle of New York City for two decades, dipshit?”

“Nah,” Richie snorts, wheeling himself back toward his computer. “We all know you’re a city slicker.”

“We literally live in the middle of Los Angeles, dude.”

“New York is, like, statistically worse than Los Angeles.”

Richie’s words are enough to make him pause. 

Since he moved into Richie’s apartment, it’s been hard to ignore that they’ve slowly been picking up on each other's mannerisms and speech patterns. It’s cute, in an odd, kind of embarrassing sort of way. Thinking of Richie subconsciously pulling words from their everyday conversations and using them with Eddie and the rest of the world is an odd, little thing Eddie never thought he’d find endearing.

He wants to say, _No one has ever tried to mimic me before. I like that you’re close enough to me that you pick up the words I use._

_I love that we know each other so well again. It’s like I never forgot you at all._

Instead, he pours cream into his coffee, and says, “I can’t argue with that.”

As soon as his coffee is made to his liking — a quarter cup of half-n-half, and one small spoonful of erythritol — he settles in beside Richie in front of his laptop. Richie flashes him a grin, minimizing his work documents and then pulls up an image search for superbloom. The results contain dozens upon dozens of photos depicting before and after shots of barren hillsides transforming into seas of wildflowers. 

It’s easy to fall down a rabbit hole when it comes to the poppy fields, finding new and bigger pictures to be wowed by with each new tab.

“When can we see this?” Eddie breathes, unable to hide the excitement in his voice when Richie stops on a particularly breathtaking photo.

“Whenever ya want, Spagheds.”

* * *

✿

That “whenever” turns out to be three days later.

They set off ridiculously early toward Walker Canyon Ecological Preserve. It’s early enough that the only light on the horizon is the blaring LA light pollution, and Eddie stares at it with a furrowed brow. Though he couldn’t see the stars beneath the blanket of smog, he knew they’re hiding somewhere up there, twinkling tauntingly overhead. Eddie blearily stumbles through his morning routine, brushing his teeth, getting coffee, taking his meds, and then dressing, but his mind is so clouded from sleep that he barely remembers doing any of it.

Somehow Richie is much better off than he is, in a bright and chipper mood most likely fueled by one-too-many cups of coffee and the piles of sugar he dilutes it with. Eddie grumbles at him sleepily, declaring him the designated driver, much to Richie’s obvious delight.

It’s not Eddie’s fault he has a thing about driving. It’s _fun_ and it helps him unwind, even if part of the unwinding involves yelling at unsuspecting drivers when they cut him off in annoying ways. 

But sleep outweighs his need for road rage-therapy, so he settles into the passenger seat with one of his ergonomic pillows.

“I’ll wake you up when we get there, Eddie.” He’d said. Richie didn’t have to tell him twice.

He sleeps in snatches, leaning against the window despite the little nagging voice in his mind warning him of broken glass or concussions. Eddie’s simply too tired to care until the coffee starts kicking in.

“Eddie,” Richie says, in the middle of their trip, most likely to show him _another_ funny road sign or bumper sticker.

Eddie mumbles, dry-mouthed.

“Spaghetti. Eddie bed-head-y,”

Eddie groans. “Rich. You’re making me full of Eddie regret-y.”

Richies’s laugh is so boisterous and wheezy that he cracks his eye open to get a glance at it. Despite the white-knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel he looks delighted, like Eddie gave him the best gift he could’ve ever asked for.  
If he gets to see that laugh more often, maybe it’s worth the cost of his precious sleep.

* * *

✿

It’s another two hours before the car comes to a stop.

Rolling hills blanketed in bright colors of orange, purple and green greet them as soon as they step foot into Walker Canyon. The rains over the last couple of months have turned the scrub-like landscape into a sea of flowers, luring in tourists by the thousands. And looking at them now, Eddie can see exactly why. Early morning light spills over the hills, illuminating the canyon and all the brightly colored flowers beneath like some sort of renaissance painting.

The photos online couldn’t have even come close to how they look in person.

Luckily, their research has paid off and the park is mostly empty. There are a couple of other families to join them in slathering on sunscreen, but it’s nothing compared to the hordes of people they saw in the crowded aerial photos.

As if he can read Eddie’s mind, Richie says, “Looks like we got here just in time.”

“Yeah.” Eddie agrees, “I guess you were right to have us leave at the asscrack of dawn.” 

“Eddie, sweets, I’m _always_ right.” 

Eddie flips him off.

The fields of flowers only get prettier as they ascend further up the hill, and suddenly Eddie can see why the canyon’s as popular as it is. Orange blankets the hills around them, spilling over the horizon and reaching out toward the sun above. The poppies move with each breeze, looking almost like they glow beneath the light of the sun. 

He’s so engrossed in admiring them that he doesn’t realize Richie’s fallen behind until he hears him wheeze out a breath. 

He turns to see Richie a little further back on the trail, red-faced and doubled over, hands gripping his knees.

“It’s barely a two-mile hike, Rich,” Eddie says, a smile spreading across his face. Eddie jogs back and offers Richie a bottle of water as he catches his breath.

“Have you looked at me?” He gasps. “I’m not exactly _athletic,_ ” he does some sort of odd, French-sounding Voice toward the end and Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“C’mon, you big fuckin’ baby. We can rest when we get to the top.”

They adopt a slower pace, which even Eddie appreciates when the path grows significantly steeper. The poppies grow in their intensity the further they climb in altitude, going from sparse patches to giant bundles of vibrant orange and gold. Eddie uses taking photos of them as an excuse to take a breather, and pointedly ignores Richie’s knowing smirk each time. They send the Losers’ group chat a multitude of selfies while they catch their breath, some having more of the flowers in them than others. 

And, at one point, they send an overly-blurry photo of a bright orange bird to Stan. 

_Oh! A male hooded oriole. A pretty one, too. :)_

Both of them grin when Stan replies almost instantly, paired with one of his rarely-used smiley emojis. They both cheer freely, relishing in the little victories. 

Out here in the hills with Richie, it’s easy to feel young again. It feels like the days spent in the Barrens during the summer, where they’d bicker and play in the rain-soaked fields, searching for frogs or lightning bugs. Although Eddie often acted like he hated getting dirty, with Richie by his side, he never hesitated to join in mud fights or jump into the biggest puddles they could find. He’d come home cover in grime gladly if it meant spending time with Richie.

They fill the quiet of their hike in similar ways as they did back then, with gentle shoves and crude jokes, and in Richie’s case, creating new Voices for the occasional hiker or pet they pass along the way. Eddie laughs out loud at one in particular, so hard in fact that they have to stop so that he can regain his composure. 

The chihuahua up ahead— which Richie had given a gravelly, smoker's voice — looks back skeptically, like he knows they’re talking about him.

Eddie breaks into another wave of wheezing laughter.

They crest the tallest hill shortly after 10 AM. Every sprawling hill in the valley below is alive with color — green grass broken up by heavy swaths of neon orange and deep purple, swaying gently with each cool breeze. There has to be thousands of them, all bundled together and blooming at once, soaking in the spring sunlight. 

Richie whistles. “That’s a fuckton of flowers.” 

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes.

They both pick an empty patch of dirt to settle down in, to stretch out their legs and relax. 

All at once, it hits Eddie how happy he is to be alive.

Six months ago, lying in his hospital bed with his shoulder and side bandaged pillowy like the Michelin Man, Eddie was certain that there was no coming back from it. His mother’s voice whispered in the back of his mind about infections, and complications, and internal bleeding enough to where, when the doctors discharged him, he almost wanted to argue. _I should have to stay longer,_ he’d thought. _There’s no way someone like me could be strong enough to deal with this._

But he _had_ been strong enough. Eddie Kaspbrak was strong enough for all of it. He was strong enough to recover, and then strong enough to leave Myra, and then finally move all the way across the entire country.

Eddie feels like this might be the reward for all of it.

He breathes the cool, California air into his healthy lungs, and counts himself lucky.

He’s seen wildflowers many times over his life, but he’s never been wowed by them, not like this. The sheer amount of color and the way it’s illuminated in the morning light is breathtaking on its own. But then he turns toward Richie, about to make a comment on how beautiful they are, and suddenly nothing compares.

Beside him, Richie’s stretched out, leaning back on his hands. His hair is slick with sweat and pushed out of his eyes, but it catches the light in such a way that turns streaks of it an enchanting honey-gold. He stares skyward with a dreamy look on his face as the wind whips a trail of flower petals toward the clouds. He looks beautiful out here, in the wilderness and haloed by the sunlight, surrounded by some of the most amazing sights Eddie has ever seen.

Something clicks in the back of his mind while he watches him, like a long-lost puzzle piece finally being slotted into place. 

Really, if he’s honest with himself, that missing puzzle piece has been here all along, patiently waiting for Eddie to accept it and finish putting it together. And now that he has, it’s a warm, satisfying feeling that spreads out from his chest and pools in his limbs, buzzing underneath his skin excitedly like it’s saying, _see? See?_

Then a desire wells up inside him, a desire to spend the rest of his days with Richie like this: viewing more superblooms on desert hills, listening to orioles call each other across the flowerscape, and carry each other through the changing seasons.

And the dizzying truly hits him: _Oh, shit. I’m in_ love _with him._

_This_ is the kind of love movies always romanticized. 

His feelings aren’t fleeting like the love one might feel for a beautiful flower arrangement or as simple as a childhood crush. It’s way bigger than that: a feeling that’s been built up over the years, a place, and a love he always knew he would return to someday. Even when he didn’t remember Richie consciously he missed him, yearned for him, in ways he’s only barely understanding. 

Eddie’s heart pounds almost painfully in his chest, yet more proof that he’s alive, that he survived, that he’s thriving in this environment like a newly transplanted tree.

The enormity of his feelings should surprise him, probably. It’s an overwhelming crash of feelings pouring over him like a wave, the kind of _unnatural_ feelings that his mother instilled in him to be terrified of. But here, surrounded by the poppies, in between the sun and the earth, it feels as natural as they are. Like all this time this feeling has been hidden just outside of sight, tucked away like a precious flower waiting to bloom.

And then Richie turns to look at him, and the moment is over. Eddie feels, ridiculously, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar when Richie stops to stare at him.

“What, can’t resist my boyish charm?” Richie’s eyes twinkle mischievously, just like when they were kids, but there's a touch of sincerity hiding behind his gaze.

Eddie swallows hard and forces himself to roll his eyes. 

“No, dude. You’ve got, like, a fuckin’ petal or something—”

It’s a bald-faced lie, but if Richie notices he doesn’t say anything. If he’s gonna do something, he has to do it now. 

He has to do it before he chickens out.

“Here,” Eddie says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as strangled as he feels.

In a moment of daring, he beckons Richie to come closer. Richie sits up and leans over, his eyes locked with Eddie’s. He has half a mind to abort his mission then and there, but he lifts his hand up to Richie’s face and gently weaves his fingers through his hair, searching for an imaginary petal. Richie holds perfectly still.

It’s like time stops for the brief moment that he feels Richie’s hair in between his fingers. It’s smooth and silky, if not a little bit sweaty from the long hike up to the peak, but Eddie finds that he doesn’t mind. He feels electricity where his skin meets Richie’s, like every feeling coursing through him is thrumming at the tips of his fingers.

After an awkward amount of time passes, he quickly pulls back and pretends to flick something away just out of Richie’s sight.

“Got it.”

Now Richie’s staring at _him_. Something about the way that Richie’s eyes soften when he stares at him kicks the butterflies in his stomach up to eleven, so he averts his eyes before the flush creeping up his collar becomes too obvious.

“Oh. Thanks, buddy.” Richie adds, a moment too late, almost like it’s an afterthought.

Oh, he’s so fucked.

* * *

✿

“C’mon. We can keep ‘em on the balcony.”

Eddie looks down at the bright orange and red poppies Richie’s holding like a lost puppy. He purses his lips. 

“Isn’t the balcony too shady for these, dude?”

“Uh, they’ll be fine, Eds. They’re _Real, Genuine, California Poppies!_ ”

Richie points up to the huge, hand-painted sign advertising the roadside flower booth that he insisted they stop at on the way home. As soon as they’d driven by, his eyes lit up like a kid hearing the first ice cream truck of the summer.

How anyone expected Eddie to deny _that_ face, he doesn’t know. 

The old lady running the booth waves to them, eyes crinkling beneath well-worn wrinkles. Eddie waves back sheepishly as Richie straps the little pot into the back seat. He closes the door gently before climbing back into the front seat. “They’ll be a great-- reminder, or whatever the fuck.”

“A momento,” Eddie corrects him, maybe a little too wistfully.

Richie snaps his fingers. “A memento! That’s it!”

Richie smiles from the passenger seat, haloed by the afternoon light. 

Eddie’s heart squeezes.

* * *

✿

Eddie wakes up the morning after their trip to Walker Canyon to another bouquet. It’s a large one, this time, with a vase packed full of some of Richie’s favorites: red tulips, little sunflowers, purple daisy-like blooms, and that same, swirly white flower. There’s new ones, too, namely something herbaceous -- cilantro? -- and green carnations.

His heart skips a beat as he stares down at it. It feels different, somehow -- like this one is bigger, somehow. More important.

* * *

✿

If Richie felt anything change in their relationship like Eddie did that morning in Walker Canyon, though, he certainly doesn’t show it.

He’s still as tactile as ever, laying his hands on Eddie’s shoulder or back or leg on the daily, for either a joke or because it’s comfortable, Eddie can never tell which. Richie’s always been handsy, ever since he was younger and looking at Eddie from behind his too-big coke bottle glasses. But now it all feels different. Eddie finds himself leaning into them, now, searching for the warmth of Richie’s touch. 

But if Richie notices _that_ , he doesn’t say anything either. 

It’s just that Eddie finds himself _looking_ now. _Really_ fucking looking. On _purpose_. He hasn’t looked or watched anyone like this in years, and it’s fucking mortifying. He looks when Richie absentmindedly chews his pen cap in between typing up new material on his laptop. He eyes him when he prepares to leave for an interview, dressed to the nines in Bev-approved fashions. Or, the worst one, when he watched Richie for a little too long while he was making a sandwich and singing along to the radio he keeps perched on top of the fridge. 

And God forbid he ask Richie to grab something off the top shelf in the pantry. He can’t even glance at Richie during those instances, lest he see an inch more of Richie’s bicep and turn into a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankle for the first time. He still gives Richie his signature snark when he makes a height joke, but they’re lacking their usual punch. 

And on their Thursday movie-slash-TV show nights, Eddie can barely focus on the task at hand. It’s like he’s a teenager all over again, flustered and embarrassed and second-guessing even the most mundane of gestures. Sometimes he goes as far as sticking his feet in Richie’s lap just to get a little closer to him, or for the excuse to have Richie touch him, wrestle him. That’s what hanging out with Richie has always done to him; brought him out of his shell and made him act younger, bolder, brasher, if only for the chance for Richie to _look_ at him. 

In their twenty-seven years apart, maybe he hasn’t changed as much as he thought he had.

“Are you even paying attention?” Richie flicks popcorn at Eddie as he zones out during an episode of _Daredevil._

“What are you, like, ten?” 

“You knew me when I was ten, Eds, I was way more annoying than this.”

“Yeah. _Ten_ times more annoying.” Eddie flicks the popcorn back at Richie, who simply catches it in his mouth. He pretends not to be impressed. 

“And I’m not paying attention because this arc is stupid, dude. Why’d they bring in _ninjas?_ ”

“I _know_ it’s stupid, Eddie,” says Richie, as if verbally soothing an irritated cat. “You bitched about it last time, too.”

“I’m going to bitch about it until it stops being stupid.”

“That’s my Eds,” Richie croons, patting him on his thigh. 

It’s a friendly gesture, Eddie knows it’s a friendly gesture, but his leg tingles beneath his touch regardless. Richie’s hand lingers a little bit longer than usual to squeeze at the bend in his knee, and Eddie feels like he’s going to combust.

* * *

✿

It isn’t until a couple of weeks later, while he’s on one of his weekly jogs with Ben, that the topic Richie finally comes up. Ben listens to him quietly, after swearing that he won’t tell any of the other Losers — _Yes, Eddie, even Bev_ he’d assured him — about his _predicament._

As soon as he starts talking, he can't _stop._

“—And he buys me _flowers!_ Like it’s no big deal! That— that’s gotta mean something. I’m not crazy, right?” 

Ben’s face goes through a range of emotions he can’t read. 

“He— he doesn’t buy you guys flowers, does he?” Eddie adds.

Ben hums, wiping a towel over his forehead and jaw. “Um, no. I think those are saved ‘specially for you.” 

Then something interesting happens: Ben seems to flush a little bit, and hurries to continue their jog. Eddie follows behind him after a beat, thinking.

They walk up the dirt path, towards a rocky overlook not too far from the Hollywood sign. It’s not their usual path, and it’s a little out of the way, but it’s worth it. They can see across the entire cityscape from here, and it’s pretty in a weird, dystopian kind of way. It’s not the same natural beauty of the poppy fields that he and Richie visited, but it’s a lovely view nonetheless. 

Ben swings his legs over the overlook and settles in. Eddie’s not quite that brave, not yet, so he finds a flat rock to sit on a little ways behind him. Ben turns to look at him, expression unreadable.

“What kind of flowers are they?” He says. 

“I mean, they’re not the same every time, Ben.” He says, quietly, picking at the sticker on his aluminum water bottle. Something about the way Ben is looking at him makes him feel scrutinized, and his skin prickles beneath his gaze. “And I’m not really good at flowers, so… I don’t fuckin’ remember. Why?” 

Ben pauses for a little too long, like he’s trying to decide what he wants to say. Finally, he shrugs, looking a little sheepish. 

“Have you ever heard of flower meanings?” 

“Flower meanings?” Eddie balks. “Ben, what the fuck are flower meanings?” 

“I looked into it when— uh,” Ben flushes bright red, his gaze flicking down to the rocks beneath him. “When I was doing poems for Bev, back in Derry.”

Eddie waits for him to spit it out, his knee bouncing impatiently. Ben squirms beneath his gaze. “I thought it would be sweet to give her some flowers, back then. But then I realized that I’d have to ask my mom for money, because— did you know flowers are expensive?” 

He sounds just as embarrassed as he would at thirteen, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“Can’t say I’ve ever looked into how expensive they are, no.”

“Well, they’re expensive for a middle schooler. I can tell you that,” Ben chuckles.

Ben was always one of the softest out of the Losers— he unapologetically enjoyed things that the rest of them would be hard-pressed to admit they knew about, let alone liked, and it’s something he’s always admired about him. Even now, when he’s grown up and the head of a multi-million dollar architectural company, Eddie can still see shadows of that same sweet kid in his smile. 

Ben clears his throat. “Anyway. In the Victorian era, they used flowers in order to give messages to their friends or— um. Colleagues,” 

The way he fumbles the sentence isn’t lost on Eddie, and suddenly his cheeks feel hot. He tips the rest of his water bottle over his head, relishing in the coolness of the water as it washes over his cheeks. He hopes he drowns before Ben notices how flustered he is.

“I mean, I don’t know that Richie is using flower meanings with you,” Ben says, but there’s a hint of something behind his voice that makes Eddie think that he’s not so certain himself. “I was just curious.” 

Eddie hopes his laugh doesn’t sound too strained when he says, “Yeah, I mean it’s Richie. Are you kidding?”

Ben murmurs something that sounds like _of course_ and kindly changes the subject. Eddie listens to him thankfully, happy to have some sort of distraction from the gears that are quickly turning in the back of his mind. 

Thankfully, Ben doesn’t push the subject further during the rest of the jog or when they return to their cars. He seemed apologetic when he told Eddie that he had to cut their jog short because of a meeting he couldn’t get out of, but guiltily, Eddie’s relieved. 

His mind hasn’t stopped racing since Ben brought up the prospects of flowers and their meanings — whatever the hell that means — and the only thing he wants to do is go home so that he can actually fucking think, and maybe get to the bottom of it.

He waves Ben off stiffly when they split off to their respective vehicles, and races home as quickly as he can within the confines of the law. Every stop sign makes him feel like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, and for a crazed moment he thinks about parking the car and running home instead. It would take twice as long, he knows, but at least he wouldn’t be stuck still for thirty seconds at a time.

The words _flower meanings_ keep repeating in his head, like some sort of annoying earworm that he’d hear while skipping radio channels. He wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s obsessed, but— But. He needs to know. He has to know. 

The apartment is blissfully empty when he pulls open the door. Richie must have left early to meet his agent for lunch, leaving Eddie alone in the apartment for the next couple of hours. He sighs in relief, and then feels a twinge of guilt. It’s probably fucked up to be happy that your best friend is out of the apartment that you both share. 

Usually, Eddie loves having Richie around because it means that the house never truly feels empty, lonely feeling that both his old home and hotel room had. But Eddie needed to be alone for this part. If Richie walked in while he was researching this, he’d bury himself in the dirt and curl up like a roly-poly.

He pops two Atarax — because his therapist told him, very seriously, that he needs to take them when he needs them and that it isn’t _wrong_ to need them — and then he pulls his laptop out of its bag. Swallowing another wave of anxiety, he gathers his laptop, its charger, and his bottle of water and dumps it onto his desk. With shaking hands, he opens up a Google tab. 

The first thing Eddie learns is that flowers _are_ fucking expensive. 

And second, he learns that Ben isn’t full of shit: There are dozens of articles, lists and hundreds of books completely dedicated to the idea of flower languages. There’s hundreds of meanings, and dozens of different contexts and ways to combine them into making special messages with a single bouquet. There’s so much information that it’s overwhelming, frankly, so Eddie does the easy thing and checks Wikipedia for the easiest-to-digest information.

He skims the page, mostly, until his eyes land on a specific paragraph. 

_...Gifts of blooms or specific floral arrangements could be used to send a coded message to the chosen recipient, allowing the sender to express feelings which could not be spoken aloud in Victorian society..._

Eddie’s heart starts beating so hard that, for a ridiculous moment, he wonders if he’s having a heart attack. He reads the sentence once, twice, three times, the words barely sinking in. 

Express feelings which could not be spoken _aloud?_

With newfound vigor, and a sense of _knowing_ , he presses on. He checks sites old and new, looking for flowers and meanings, and audibly sighs in relief when he finally finds one that has photos of common flowers and their meanings. 

The first ones are more generic. Lilies, daisies, carnations, and roses. Richie’s given him roses before, but those are normal, plain Jane flowers that you give to people when you buy them flowers. Even _Eddie_ knows that. 

But then the website offers him photos of some of the more uncommon flowers that he’s received from Richie, and he can’t help but find a theme. Each and every bouquet, when put together, have very specific meanings. He puts them all into a spreadsheet, just to be sure, and when he does there’s no way to deny it. 

Statistically, it would be impossible for all of the bouquets' meanings to coincide with the timing that Richie gifted them to him. 

And if Eddie’s good at one thing, it’s statistics. 

It feels like his feelings are only further confirmed when he skims the website a little more, and he locks eyes with a flower that’s been woven into three of Richie’s gifts. 

_White Gardenia,_ the description beneath the photo offers helpfully, _are given to convey secret love for the recipient._

Eddie reads it once. Twice. 

The feeling hits him like a freight train. Eddie’s mind spins. 

Richie’s included these flowers in three separate bouquets: the first one, right after he told him about his divorce was finalized. Then, in the bouquet that Richie gave him after his first bad nightmare. And then, most recently, as a stand-alone bouquet after their trip to the Canyon.

All of the little pieces slot together in his mind, and it feels like the wind is knocked out of his lungs. 

There’s a non-zero chance that Richie Tozier actually loves him. Richie — the man that told him that he was braver than he thought, and the man that made him realize he wasn’t broken and it was possible for Eddie to love someone again — loves him. And, it’s possible that he’s been quietly telling him this entire time.

And Eddie never fucking knew. 

It’s also very possible that the two of them were pining after each other this entire time, but neither fucking said anything. 

Eddie closes his laptop, and he laughs. He laughs until it hurts, because it's all so fucking ridiculous. And, because he doesn’t, he’ll lose his mind.

* * *

✿

After he has a panic attack or two, Eddie decides to make a cup of coffee. He’s well aware that coffee isn’t good for his anxiety, but he needs _something,_ and he wants to be sober for this. 

Eddie ignores the gnawing anxiety even still while he waits for his coffee to brew. He taps his fingers on the Keurig, waiting impatiently for it to drip down into one of the tacky souvenir cups Richie picked up for him on his last work trip. Richie beamed when he gave it to him — a little plain, white mug with a terrible ‘ten-I-see’ pun scrawled on the front because he thought the joke was _hilarious._ But Eddie can’t help looking way too far into it, now. 

Had Richie given it to him for a reason? Or, did he simply look down at this stupid, overpriced souvenir cup at a gift shop in Nashville and think Eddie would hate it? Did he know that months later, Eddie would still be using it, despite his insistence that he thought it was tacky? 

Eddie’s mind spins with too many possibilities. Sighing, he pointedly pulls his eyes away from the cup to look up and stare out the window. His gaze falls on the little cactus sitting on the kitchen windowsill that Richie gifted him instead. 

He puts his head in his hands, muffling a groan beneath them, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

Ben picks up almost immediately. “Hey, Eddie!” There’s a rustling sound, and then, “You’re on speaker.” 

“Hi, Eddie!” Bev’s voice sing-songs on-cue, muffled like she’s in the distance. 

“Hey guys,” Eddie says, trying to keep his voice casual. 

His heart pounds in his chest, and he tries to calm himself by offsetting his anxious energy by pacing, listening to the sound of his bare feet on the kitchen tile. Ben and Bev wouldn’t ever laugh at him, he _knows_ they wouldn’t, but… 

“So, uh, Ben, about that thing we talked about earlier.”

“The flower meanings?” He offers, not missing a beat. He wonders if Ben told Bev about it already. The words alone are enough to make his heart rate increase again, and he curses below his breath, low enough that he hopes Ben and Bev didn’t hear it. 

“Yeah. The flower meanings. I, you know, looked into it when I got home. Because I was curious! It seemed like it might be — uh, interesting,” 

“Interesting,” Bev parrots, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice like Ben’s already filled her in on their conversation. That answers _that_ question. Eddie rubs his free hand over his face. 

“Yeah?” Ben asks, voice kind. 

“I think you might have been right.” Eddie leans against the counter, breathless. He wonders if this is what the kids in high school and college meant when they talked about their crushes; like their feelings were so enormous that it felt like their chests were going to burst. Saying the words out loud is enough to make him feel dizzy. He braces his hand on the corner of the countertop.

“About the meanings?” Ben asks, quiet and patient, like he somehow knows the amount of emotional turmoil Eddie is in by some sort of weird, Loser-symbiosis. 

“Yeah. I found this website. Did you know there are full fucking websites for this shit, man? Anyway, I found it and it had some pictures of a few common flowers with specific meanings and… they match up. Like, they all— It’s all there, man. I don’t know what it all means but, I think Richie—” His voice cracks embarrassingly toward the end. “I think Richie might..?” 

His chest squeezes, and he lets out a soft huff of air. His lungs catch up after a while, and he sucks in a deep breath in between his teeth. 

“Eddie, honey,” Bev interrupts him kindly. She sounds like she’s closer to the phone, now. Usually, Eddie hates terms of endearment because they often come off as patronizing or fake, but with Bev, somehow the words feel true. “Is Richie home?” 

“He’s at a lunch meeting.”

And thank God for that. The last thing he wants is for Richie to see him like this. 

“Okay. Good. Let yourself have some time and then when he gets home, talk to Richie, okay?” There’s an air of knowing in Bev’s tone. Eddie can’t decide whether that gives him comfort or more anxiety. “I’m sure everything will be less scary after.” He breathes out of his nose slowly. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah— I— I will. Thanks. Both of you,” He says, voice pathetically quiet even to his own ears.

“We’re always here to listen to you,” Ben says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

“We love you, honey.” Bev agrees. 

“Love you too,” Eddie says, and for once the words don’t feel alien coming out of his mouth. “I’ll talk to you guys later.” 

As soon as the call ends, he feels the exhaustion hit him. All of the air escapes from his lungs in one long huff, and he closes his eyes beneath it. Then he pulls the Brita filter out of the fridge, pours himself a cup of water, and drinks it slowly. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale, rinse, and repeat. 

There’s one thing that he knows for certain: He loves Richie. He loves him differently and louder than he loves the other Losers, with a warmth and certainty that spreads the longer he thinks about it. If he’s honest with himself, he’s loved Richie since they were young and trapped in Derry, reading comics together and giggling beneath the burning summer sun. He’s loved and longed for him long before he knew what love actually felt like, and long before the clown took their memories. 

He also knows that Richie is bad about talking about his feelings, or taking them seriously, even when he knows that there’s a safe place to land. He always has been, really. Richie clams up at the notion of anyone else truly seeing him beneath all of the jokes and gaffs, but Eddie’s always been able to see through it. Until now. 

The other thing that he knows for certain is that he’s not an easy person to love. With as much baggage and mess that he carries around day-to-day, he’s not sure that anyone can really break down those walls. Not even Richie; someone who can match his neuroses and personality without batting an eyelash. A small part of him wonders if he’ll always be like this, bogged down and broken, completely unlovable. 

His chest tightens again at the thought. 

_Richie can love you,_ he thinks. _He’s allowed to love you. And you’re someone that can be loved._

He repeats it in his mind a couple of times, like some sort of mantra, just like his therapist recommended. 

Only when he feels some of the tightness in his chest release does he move out of the kitchen. He does the thing he does best when he’s this tightly wound: he cleans. 

Cleaning’s always been cathartic for him, somehow. His therapist explained that it was a way for him to gain control of his surroundings, keeping them clean and neat while his thoughts were anything but. He’s never been sure if he believes her, but what he does know is that it helps, so when she ended up telling him that it was a fine coping mechanism for anxiety, he breathed out a sigh of relief. 

Eddie pulls out all of the cleaning supplies, and starts with the living room. He scrubs down all of the hard surfaces first and cleans the minimal clutter that’s built up over the last couple of days. Then he sweeps the floors and beneath the coffee and end tables, mops the tile, and vacuums all of the rugs. The last thing he does is fluff the pillows on the couch, because, honestly, there isn’t much left, and he’s stalling. 

When it’s all said and done and all of the pillows are thoroughly fluffed, he barely feels the buzz of anxiety in his limbs, and when he checks his phone it’s nearly four. Eddie puts all of the supplies up methodically, washes his hands, and then pours himself another glass of water. 

With his water in hand, Eddie stares out the window and makes a decision.

* * *

✿

Richie finally comes home a little after seven. 

Eddie hears the tell-tale sound of him dumping his bag on the floor beside the door, and then the tinkle of his keys landing in the key bowl. The sound of footsteps follows soon after, and Eddie’s breath hitches when he hears them get closer. Anxiety rolls through him like a thunderstorm, his pulse a roaring wind in his ears. 

“Eds, you here?” 

He has plenty of time to bail if he wants to, and he knows it. Eddie could put on his big boy pants and pretend that everything is fine until it actually is. It’s not like he has to talk to Richie about his feelings, or their feelings, or whatever the hell else this is. He’s happy to keep going just as they have been, bickering and hanging out and doing practically everything together. 

Because he’d much rather have all of Richie than none of him. 

But he’s _curious._ And, as they say, curiosity kills the fuckin’ cat. 

Richie calls out to him again, a little louder this time. 

He swallows. “Yeah, I’m in here.” 

Richie flips the light on in the living room and Eddie’s pulse stutters. 

“What were you doing in here with the light off, man?” Richie grins, leaning over the back of the couch, chin in his hands. “Doing some new-age meditation? A vampire ritual?” 

“Something like that,” Eddie agrees. 

Richie puckers his lips and raises his eyebrows. It’s supposed to be funny. Eddie has never wanted to simultaneously kiss someone and scream into a pillow more in his _life._

Eddie can hear him moving around the living room, putting his jacket on one of the coat hangers, taking off his shoes. Then he walks into the kitchen and Eddie listens as he goes through his routine like he always does when he gets home: getting a glass of juice that Eddie always tries to replace with water, and then rustling for a snack after sitting in traffic for so long. 

And for some stupid reason, he’s rooted in place. None of the hours of preparation could have prepared him for how fucking terrified he’d be. It’s not like he didn't know it’d be hard — but coming up to it makes him freeze up tighter than he had in Neibolt. And now he’s being weird, he knows he is, because by now he’s usually asking Richie about his day or otherwise giving him a hard time. But he just can’t get himself to move. 

As if on cue, Richie flops down on the couch next to him. He frowns a little bit.

“Hey, Eds, are you alright?”

“Yeah I’m—” Eddie swallows down the knot in his throat. “Actually, no, I’m not. I don’t know why I said I was fine because I’m. Not.”

Richie cocks his head to the side, and suddenly he reminds Eddie of a golden retriever. The frown thats plastered on his face makes Eddie’s heart pound. 

His voice is so delicate, so concerned, when he says, “Eddie?” 

If he’s gonna do it, it has to be now. 

“Rich. Can I— can I ask you a question?” 

If it’s even possible, Richie looks more confused than he was before. “Shoot?” 

Eddie stares down at his socked feet, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Have you been— have you been using fuckin’—” He swallows, roughly, looking everywhere but Richie.

“Like, flower language, all this time? With— with the gifts and the flowers?”

All at once, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. All he can hear is the distant whirring of the air conditioner outside and the pulse in his ears. When he cautiously pulls his gaze up from his feet, Richie is staring at him with blue eyes wide behind his glasses. He watches him visibly flounder while he processes Eddie’s words, opening his mouth once, twice, and then finally closing it with an audible click of his teeth. 

Then, like a flipped switch, Richie’s expression changes completely. The line of his shoulders tense and he sets his jaw, pushing back until his back hits the arm of the couch. He suddenly looks like a wild animal cornered in a trap, wide-eyed and searching for any method of escape. Eddie’s seen this look before, back in Derry when he’d first asked him if he found his token. 

It dawns on him, then: Richie’s afraid. 

Then the strings are cut. Richie stands up very suddenly, his eyes wild and his hands twitching at his sides. “I can’t do this.” 

A wave of panic washes over him when he realizes that Richie’s about to run. He knows, with an overwhelming certainty, that if he lets Richie go, everything will change. And not in the way that he wants it to, either. They’re both teetering on a tightrope of emotions, both too afraid of the consequences, too afraid to fall. Eddie doesn’t want to be afraid.

Richie moves quickly, but Eddie’s always been a little faster. He catches Richie’s wrist, pulling him back. 

He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that says he’s being too clingy, too emotional, too _much_. But if Eddie’s gotta take the plunge first, well, so fucking be it. 

“Rich—” 

“Eddie, let me go,” Richie’s voice cracks toward the end, small and broken. He makes a weak, half-hearted attempt to pull his wrist away. 

“C’mon, man,” Eddie says. “You can’t leave,” 

“I can’t talk about this, Eddie, please,” Richie pleads, and for a moment Eddie’s heart stops. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but—”

“I _think_ you love me,” Eddie says, ignoring the tightness in his throat when he says it. All of his emotions swell in his ribcage and start to pour out of his mouth, now that he has the smallest amount of an outlet. “Not like the other Losers, either. I think you’ve loved me for a long time and were using the flowers to — to tell me, _without_ telling me, Rich, that’s what I’m thinking.” 

Richie visibly deflates beneath his words. The tenseness of his wrist loosens, and he lowers his head until his hair falls over his face. It’s the quietest Eddie ever seen him, except for when he was helping Mike pull him out of Neibolt. Richie looks as wrung out as he feels, like he’s broken open and raw, exposed. 

Lifting his head and glancing over at a spot on the wall over Eddie’s shoulder, Richie murmurs, “When did you figure it out?” 

“Today,” Eddie says. Richie moves backward enough to where Eddie can sit back down on the couch, but he’s not ready to let go of his wrist yet. Richie stands beside him, expression unreadable. “Well, I learned about the flower part today. I— I’ve hoped, for a while that maybe—” 

Eddie clears his throat. “Yeah. Today.” 

That’s apparently enough to make Richie finally, _finally,_ look down at him. There’s an emotion on his face that Eddie can’t place, but he doesn’t shake his hand off his wrist, so he hopes that’s a good sign.

“You— you _hoped?_ ”

Eddie’s face flushes with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “Yeah, man, I hoped! I thought I was fucking obvious, this entire time—” 

“Eddie? You- You were _obvious?_ ” Richie’s voice cracks toward the end. “About _what?_ ”

The puzzle pieces slowly begin fitting together in Eddie’s mind. Richie’s terrified because he doesn’— he never fucking figured it out. In spite of Eddie’s relentless half-flirts and aborted glances, Richie never had a clue that he was looking. He could almost laugh, if he knew it wouldn’t ruin the moment. Richie turns to face him completely, now, and Eddie cautiously drops his hand from his wrist. 

“Richie,” He says, very slowly, “Did you not notice how much of a crush I have on you?” 

Richie’s eyes bug out of his head, visibly floundering for the second time in ten minutes. He collapses back onto the couch, one of his hands covering his mouth. Eddie stays very still, trying not to jostle him too much just in case it breaks the spell they’re both under.

“You _like_ me?” Richie breathes, like it’s some sort of unbelievable concept. 

“Yeah, dude, I fucking _‘like’_ you. What are we in, middle school? Christ,” He huffs, a smile playing on the edge of his lips.

“I love you, Richie. And not in the way that we say to the rest of the Losers.” Eddie meets his eyes, heart thrumming in his chest. Now that he’s said it, he feels like a dam’s broken and all of his feelings are spilling out for the world to see. “Even when you use nicknames or make jokes I pretend to hate, I love you. You’re the only person that makes me— makes me feel _special._ ”

For a moment, it looks like Richie’s short-circuiting while he’s processing the words. He’d feel awkward, or put-out, if it weren’t for the fact that he can see Richie’s brain buffering behind his wide-eyed stare.

“But— I like _you_ , Eddie.” 

“Yeah, that’s usually how this works, you dork.” Eddie laughs. Richie laughs along with him, this time, and suddenly it all feels so easy. 

Richie’s expression softens, and Eddie’s heart squeezes at the way he says, “Eds.” 

It sounds soft and sweet, like his name has never sounded on anyone else's lips. What was once a teasing nickname is now soft around the edges, worn down over time into something new, something special.

While he still feels the spark of bravery, Eddie closes the distance between them. Somehow, even after all of that, Richie’s eyes widen like he’s _still_ surprised that all of this is happening. He smiles up at him sheepishly and cups Richie’s jawline with both of his hands, and then presses their lips together. Richie’s lips are a little chapped and Eddie’s shaking so hard that the first time doesn’t quite meet the mark, but it’s _perfect._

And then they re-adjust, and Richie’s glasses are still digging into the side of his cheek, but… oh. It feels like the livewire pulled beneath his skin snaps, sending an electric shock up his spine and down to the tips of his toes. He’s kissed a few people in his lifetime, especially back in his college days, but none of them came close to feeling like this. It feels like he’s both floating and rooted in place, in _Richie_ , and then when Richie shudders beneath his hands and it’s like he’s in heaven.

Richie twists one of his hands into the front of Eddie’s shirt and uses his other to tightly cradle the crook in between his shoulder and neck. He feels alive and loved with how tightly he’s holding him, like he’s actually something to be wanted. His head spins, and he presses closer, chasing that high. 

The idea that Richie loves him, someone as ridiculous and high-strung and fucked up and full of baggage as Eddie is, is dizzying enough. The fact that they’re kissing each other like teenagers is just icing on the vertigo-inducing cake. 

He kisses Richie like he’s wanted to for weeks, for months, fuck for years. Eddie pushes his affection into every action, hoping desperately that Richie can feel the love that’s threatening to explode from his ribs. It feels like he’s breathing a secret after twenty-seven years of holding it in, weaving it in between every light touch and movement of his lips. He slots his fingers on Richie’s jaw and behind his ear, brushing against the stubble there, mostly because he can.

And then Richie’s hold tightens, even more, his hands trembling against where his fingers are digging into Eddie’s shirt. 

Eddie pulls away suddenly, gasping, cursing the clown for his shitty lung function. He rests his forehead in the crook of Richie’s neck. Richie mumbles nonsense into his hair, somewhere between understanding and not knowing how to be quiet. 

“I love you.” Eddie murmurs against his skin, closing his eyes. “I think I loved you back then, too, I just didn’t know it until now.” 

Overcome with that sentence and the enormous weight of the emotion that comes with it, he moves his face to hide against Richie’s collarbone. Richie rests his cheek on the top of Eddie’s head, fitting their bodies together like they belong. After a heartbeat, he feels his fingers cradle the back of his head, idly running his fingers through Eddie’s gelled hair. 

If he minds, though, he certainly doesn’t say anything.

“It’s always been you, Eddie,” Richie’s voice is so heavy with affection and emotion that Eddie’s heart squeezes beneath the weight of it. “Even when I didn’t remember you, it was still you.” 

A memory hits him, suddenly, of being at nineteen huddled in the corner of a party. He’d gone mostly to prove to himself that he could handle going even when he had no friends to accompany him or hang out with, or to _protect him, Eddie-Bear._ It was fine, overall, though a little too noisy and crowded for his tastes, hence the corner, but the thing that struck him most was a brief glimpse of his childhood echoed in the form of two freshmen sharing a set of popsicles.

Eddie was overwhelmed with the memory of someone with glasses that took up a third of his face, grinning at him in the summer sun. The ache that he felt in that moment was tangible, like the memory of him was so close, if he thought about it just a little harder, a little longer. But the longer he chased it, the further it drifted away. 

It bothered him for a while, not being able to remember, until the clown took that away from him, too.

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “Me, too.” 

The words aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough, probably, but it’s a start.

They sit there in silence for a moment, chests heaving. Richie’s fingers continue running through his hair, and Eddie shivers when he plants a kiss to the top of his head. 

Richie is warm and soft in a way that Eddie has never felt before. It feels right, like he’s _supposed_ to be here, wrapped underneath the weight of Richie’s arms and hands, held tightly to his chest. He’s gotten better at getting physically close to people since he moved out to LA, but nothing has felt like this. It’s closer. Better.

It’s better than anything he could have hoped for. Emboldened, he swings his leg over Richie’s lap and sits there, suddenly feeling powerful in a way he doesn’t think he has before. Richie stares up at him, dark-eyed and flushed down to the collar of his shirt. 

There’s a tension in the air now that’s different than before. When Eddie kisses him, it’s with purpose.

* * *

✿

“Rich,” Eddie murmurs, voice slow even to his own ears. He digs his chin into Richie’s sternum. Richie uses the opportunity to lean down and kiss him, once, twice, three times. Eddie huffs a laugh against his lips.

“Mm?”

“Why flowers?” 

Richie freezes. Eddie has a moment of panic that he ruined the moment by saying the wrong thing, that he shouldn’t have pressed too early. Then Richie _chuckles._

“What’s so funny, big guy?” Eddie searches Richie’s face, making himself a little bit crosseyed due to the closeness. Richie looks like he’s fucking _sheepish_ , and then he pulls away, the apple of his cheeks flushed pink. Eddie tucks the image of him, red-faced and shy, into the album of his mind, feeling a strange sort of pride at the fact that he did that. 

Richie‘s blushing because of _him._

“Do you,” Richie says, voice barely above a murmur. He licks his lips like he’s trying to wet them, and Eddie flicks his eyes to look down at them before leveling his gaze back to Richie’s. “Do you remember the bridge across from Bassey Park?” 

Eddie maps downtown Derry in his mind, starting from his childhood home, past Strawford Park, then down towards the Barrens. He categorizes all of the paths they took down towards the clubhouse in his mind, thinking, until it finally dawns on him.

“The kissing bridge.” They say, in unison, an echo of one another. 

“Uh, yeah. Well—” Richie says, fidgeting. 

Richie pulls even further back from him, and Eddie aches with the loss of Richie’s weight. But he watches, patiently, as Richie grabs his phone off the nightstand unlocks it with a practiced pattern. For a moment he looks like he’s deeply concentrating on finding something, swiping through rapidly like he’s going through an entire fucking gallery of photos. 

Then, Eddie sees the exact moment he finds it. 

If he looked sheepish before, he looks full-on embarrassed now. 

He offers his phone out to Eddie.

Lit up on the screen is a photo. It’s blurry, like it was taken quickly. Like whoever took it didn’t want to linger too long — or be seen taking the photo, his mind offers. But Eddie can see what it is clearly: An old, wooden bridge railing. It looks like it’s seen better days, really, with greying wood and splintered edges.  
But what really catches his eye are the hidden treasures scattered across it: little carvings of names and initials, exactly how he remembered them from childhood. He remembers hearing rumors about it whispered in school and thinking it was embarrassing.

And maybe a _little_ romantic.

Nestled smack-dab in the center of the photo, though, is a carving of a sharp-edged heart, with a clear inscription. 

**R + E.**

When he looks up, Richie’s face is hidden by his ridiculously large hands. 

Eddie’s mind buffers. “Is this..?”

“Yeah, yuck it up, Eds. Get your chucks out now.” 

“Rich, no, why would I— dude, what the fuck!” he tosses the phone onto the bed beside Richie. “Why would I laugh about that?” 

Richie peers out from in-between his fingers. “Because I was hopelessly in love with you, and it’s fucking embarrassing?” he can hear the way his voice cracks when he hikes it up in question. 

“And I carved our initials into a makeout spot?” He adds, like that would somehow change Eddie’s mind. 

Eddie would be lying if this wasn’t the most unexpectedly romantic thing that he’s ever fucking heard. Richie’s never struck him as being the romantic or sappy type, especially for someone like him, but here he is, paired with a relic of his love — their love — carved in the shithole that is Derry, out there for everyone to see. 

“It’s not embarrassing.” He tries to make his voice firm, but it comes out impossibly fond. “What the fuck, dude?”

He reaches to cradle the side of Richie’s cheek, and to his pleasant surprise, Richie leans into it. Eddie can actually feel how embarrassed he is by the heat of the blush that spreads between his fingers.

Eddie doesn’t know how this relates to the flowers, really, but it seems Richie does.

“When did you..?”

“After we went into Neibolt for the first time,” Richie murmurs. “When — when It had you and you still kept being so brave even when the rest of us were freaking out, it’s like my world shrunk to where I could only see you.”

Eddie remembers that moment clearly. How Richie had reached out to him, begging him to _look at him_ , and not at the embodiment of evil that was stalking toward them. 

“Then your mom kept us apart and it really fucked me up. I— God, Eddie, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then it was like it all clicked, all the thinking about you. A-and then after I carved this into the bridge, because, fuck,” Richie runs his fingers through his hair, like some sort of nervous tick.

“It felt safe, you know? Like, I— I had all of these feelings, in here,” Whether he’s gesturing to his chest, or himself in general, Eddie can’t tell. “That I couldn’t tell you, or anyone. I mean, I think Bev knew, but she— she never said anything— and.” 

He takes in a deep breath. “It was a way that I could claim that feeling, and make it real, without putting it all out there.” 

Eddie can actually feel the gears turning in his mind now. “And the flowers…?”

Richie smiles up at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Ding-ding-ding, we gotta winnah,” Richie drones, trying his best to put on some sort of game show Voice that falls flat. “Gifting flowers and keeping my mouth shut is a lot easier than ruining everything.” 

A pathetic, whining noise escapes Eddie’s throat. Richie never told him about his feelings because Richie grew up in Derry just like he had. He heard the same sneering taunts and comments throughout middle and high school. A flurry of emotions swirl in his chest as he pushes forward, holding Richie’s jaw as he presses their lips together again. He kisses with fervor, hoping to any God that exists that Richie can feel the enormity of his love and affection, that somehow he can pass it through telepathically with his lips until he believes it. 

Like somehow it’ll make all of that better.

“Your Voices are better than they used to be,” he breathes, pulling back, “But you don’t have to hide behind them anymore, Rich.” 

Richie’s face softens, blue eyes swimming behind his glasses. He’s the one to lean forward this time, kissing him softly. Eddie can feel the stubble and wetness on Richie’s cheek scrape against his cheek as he presses in, his fingers weaving in between the soft hairs at the base of Richie’s skull. Richie holds onto him like he’s something precious, and it’s a feeling that overwhelms him. 

Before Richie, no one held him like that. Eddie’s never felt precious or cherished by anybody in the way they talked about in TV shows or movies. With all of his other personal relationships, he felt more like a bird locked in a cage, captured and safe from the world, but unable to fly in the cramped confines of the metal bars. 

But Richie always held him gently and with love, allowing him to fly when he needed to and a safe place to land when he was ready to come back. 

“I’m glad I uprooted my life for this,” Eddie says, honestly, muffled against Richie’s shoulder.

Richie laughs, high and wobbly. “Even when I snot in your hair?” 

“Even when you snot in my hair,” Eddie agrees. Then he thinks about it a little more, cringes, and adds, “Unfortunately.” 

Richie snorts, pulling him in closer. Eddie goes along with him easily, twisting his body in an awkward angle to fit up close to him. They end up squashed together like two pretzels rather than two, fully grown adult men, skin sweaty and sticking against each other. Frankly, it’s a little gross, and he knows he’s going to have a neckache in the morning, but there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

* * *

✿

Eddie wakes up more chipper than he has in years. 

Not even the fact that the other side of the bed is empty dampers his mood. He stirs when he hears the tell-tale sounds of Richie brewing coffee and singing along to the radio, and can’t help the smile that blooms across his face. Richie isn’t the best singer by a longshot, but his passion and enthusiasm is enough to keep him in bed for a little longer, basking in it. 

Or maybe it’s the overwhelming love that he feels for him. Regardless, it’s _nice._

When he finally wakes up out of his dozing and hauls himself out of bed, it’s approaching noon. While he’s figured out he’s not nearly as much of a morning person as he thought, staying in bed until _after noon_ is fucking ridiculous. He hasn’t done that since his freshman year of college, and he’s not going to start that tradition now. He pads into the kitchen, only a little bummed when he finds it empty. But that ache is quickly replaced by affection when his eyes land on the vase placed pointedly close to the Keurig. 

For some reason, he still wasn’t expecting the flowers. It’s hard to remember that this is real, and it's not some sort of fucked up dream concocted by a long-dead clown when you’ve lived with the bare-minimum of affection for so long. 

Eddie breathes in the sweet scent of roses, running his fingers over velvety-soft petals. His fingers pause on the rough edge of a folded up piece of paper. He pulls it off of its plastic, fork-like stand. 

**To my Eds, my favorite little detective, my Treas-ard Edward. This one’s for you. And I won’t even make you Google it this time!**

**This bouquet is made up of -**

_**Red roses - love  
Peony - Medicine God (that’s you!) and romance ;) ;)  
Ambrosia - requited love  
Pink Roses - happiness  
Sunflowers - adoration  
Lavender - for the gays (that’s us!) **_

_**Love always and forever, Rich**_

Each and every word has some sort of emoji, or smiley face or heart written next to it in a glittery pen. Fondness blooms in his chest, spreading vines of warmth up to the top of his head and down to his toes. 

Sometimes, life can quickly get away from you. But sometimes, Eddie thinks, that isn’t such a bad thing.

**Author's Note:**

> ✿✿✿
> 
> Come talk to me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/evvobevvo)


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